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THE 



DIOSMA, 



PERENNIAL 



'BY 



MISS H. F. GOULD. 



"The Poet is a poem, which but few 
Can read, to understand ! His mind, a book 
Of nature's lore, is shadowed, — like a brook 
That rolls through leafy woods, — by thoughts that strew 
Dim phantoms o'er his track ; and visions new 
Spring momently before him, as if shook 
By spiritual wings upon his heart ! " 



BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 

1851. 




fK 






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cx>?1 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, 

BY H. F. GOULD, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



PREFACE. 



The delicate aromatic flowering-shrub, DlOSMA, may be said, both 
literally and metaphorically, to have been in high odor with the 
ancients in Greece and Rome. They made it sacred, used it in their 
temples, and named it after their supreme divinity. 

The typical allusion intended, in thus adopting the name of such 
a perennial, will be obvious, I hope, in the character and qualities of 
the poems. Those here from my own pen are, in part, now in 
print for the first time, and in part, selections from my volumes of 
such as were deemed most acceptable to the reader. Those by other 
writers are of foreign origin, as far as can be ascertained from the 
" fugitive form in which they were found, and discovered to be of such 
worth, that I thought it desirable to have them embodied in a conve- 
nient manual. If, in doing this, I have trespassed on the rights of 
any American author, I hope the sin of ignorance will be winked at ; 
while my aim has been to make a pleasant and wholesome presen- 
tation to those who may choose a flower, as well for its intrinsic 
virtues, as for its outward beauty. 

Newburyport, Mass., ) xi p p AT . TT . 

August, 1850. 5 H> F ' GoLLD - 



CONTENTS. 

Why don't He come ? 13^ 

Ode, 17^ 

The Three Guests, 21 

Hope, 25 

The Poor Man's Hymn, ........ 29 

Shadows of Memory, 32 

The Fountain's Depths, 35 

Bridal Serenade, 37 

The Maiden from Afar, 39 

Music, 41 v' 

A Child fallen Asleep amid its Sports, 49 

Song of Dreams, 51 

Home, 55 

Trees for the Pilgrim's "Wreath, 59 



6 CONTENTS. 

Song of Hope, 61 

The Solitary Man, 63 

Vesper Hour, 68 

The Rising Eagle 70 

The Sleeping Child, 73 

Thought and Deed, 76 

The Weeper Demented, 78 

A Long While Ago, 80 

Weep not for Her, 84 

The Dying Child, . 87 

The Playthings, 89 

The Mother's Dream, 90 

Maiden of the Sunny Brow, 95 

Safe Counsel, 97 

The Dying Exile, 99 

Music of the Crickets, 102 

Home where the Heart is, . f 106 

The Nights, 108 

The Mother's Jewel, 110 

The Siller Pen, 113 

Old Friends Together, 116 

The Hidden Name, 118 

Lost Friends, 120 

The Death-Bed, 121 

The Almond Tree, 122 



CONTENTS. / 

Meetings Here, 124 

To a Sick Child, 126 

Meetings and Partings, 129 

A Name in the Sand, . . . 131 

Time, .133 

The Ship is Ready, 135 

The Unforgotten, 138 

The Sentenced, 140 

A Happy Life, 144 

The Other Day, 146 

The Sabbath, 150 

The Miniature, 153 

The Conqueror, 156 

TheMonrner, 159 

Beauty, 161 

Light, 163 

The Unconscious Orphan, 165 

'Twas Yesterday, 167 

Forest Music, 170 

The Source of Truth, 172 

The Little One's Prayer, 173 

The Jasmine-Tree, 175 

The Child's Way to Heaven, 177 

Warning from the G old-Mine, 180 

The Tomb of Blucher, 182 



8 CONTENTS. 

Time's Portrait, 184 

A Lover's Ballad, 187 

Frost, the Winter-Sprite, 189 

The Green Moss, 191 

A Cheap, but Precious Treasure, 193 

Spring Meditations, 196 

Nature more than Science, . 198 

The Midnight Mail, 200 

Song of the Bells, 203 

The Early Primrose, 205 

Be Kind to Each Other, 207 

The Midnight Rain, 209 

The Land which no Mortal may know, 211 

Burns, 213 

Passages in Life, 215 

The Widow and Her Child, 217 

The Aspen-Tree, . ." 219 

Song over a Child, 221 

The Song of Time, ... 223 

The Infant Baptist, 225 

A Voice from the Wine-Press, 228 

The Christian Mariner, . 231 

Procrastination, 234 

Religion's Name Perverted, 236 

The Lonely Heart, 238 



CONTEXTS. 9 

Death, 241 

Speaking Roses, 244 

Burning the Letters, 246 

The Moon upon the Spire, 249 

Good-Night, 252 

The Little Foot, 254 

Love Strong in Death, 257 

The Trunk from Sea, .260 

Winter Lightning, 263 

The Dying Storm 265 

The Fountain of Marah, 267 

Fame, 269 

Written in a Churchyard, 271 

The Wandering Wind, 273 

Is there an Unbeliever, 275 

A Dream of Music, 277 

Evening, * .... 279 

The Sleeping Slave, 281 

Dirge, 283 

The Storm in the Forest, 286 



THE DIOSMA 



THE DIOSMA. 



WHY DON'T HE COME? 

The ship has anchored in the bay ; 

They've dropped her weary wings; and some 
Have manned the boat, and come away; 

But where is he, — why don't he come? 

Among the crowd with busy feet, 
My eye seeks one it cannot find: 

While others haste their friends to greet, 
Why, why is he so long behind? 



14 THE DIOSMA. 

Because he bade me dry my cheek, 
I dried it, when he went from us ; 

I smiled with lips that could not speak ! 
And now, how can he linger thus ? 

I've felt a brother's parting kiss 

Each moment since he turned from me, 

To lose it only in the bliss 

Of meeting him, — where can he be ? 

I've reared the rose he bade me rear; 

I've learned the song he bade me learn 
And nursed the bird, that he might hear 

Us sing to him at his return. 

I've braided many a lovely flower 
His dear, dear picture to inwreathe, 

While doating fancy, hour by hour, 

Has seen it smile, and made it breathe. 

I wonder if the flight of time 

Has made the likeness now untrue ; 

And if the sea and foreign clime 

Have touched him with a darker hue. 



THE DIOSMA. 15 

For I have watched, until the sun 

Has made my longing vision dim; 
But cannot catch a glimpse of one 

Among the crowd, that looks like him. 

How slowly do the moments waste, 

While thus he stays ! Where can he be ? 

My heart leaps forth, — haste, brother, haste ! 
It leaps to meet and welcome thee ! 

" Thou lonely one ! the mournful tale 
That tells why he comes not, will make 

Thy heart to bleed, thy cheek turn pale ! 
Death finds no tie too strong to break ! 

" The bird will wait its master long, 

And ask his morning gift in vain ; 
Ye both must now forget the song 

Of joy, for sorrow's plaintive strain. 

" The face, whose shade thy tender hand 

Has wreathed with flowers, is changed ! — but sea, 

Nor sun, nor air of foreign land 

Hath wrought the change ; for where is he ? 



16 THE DIOSMA. 

"Where! — oh! the solemn deep, that took 
His form, as, with their sad farewell, 

His brethren gave the last, last look, 

And lowered him down; — that deep must tell. 

" But ocean cannot tell the whole : — 
The part that death can never chill, 

Nor floods dissolve, — the living soul, 
Is happy, bright, and blooming still! 

" And nobler songs than ever sound 

In mortal voices, greet his ear, 
Where sweeter, fairer flowers are found, 

Than all he left to wither here. 

" This, this is why he does not come, 
Whom thy fond eye has sought so long! 

Wait : — when thy days have filled their sum, 
Thou'lt find him in an angel throng." 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA. 17 



ODE. 

FOR THE SECOND CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF THE SETTLEMENT 
OF A NEW-ENGLAND TOWN. 

The wilderness was deep and drear, 

And mind a savage wild : 
Chaotic darkness brooded here 

O'er man, the forest-child. 
The Spirit, by our fathers, moved 

Upon the face of Night ; 
When dawned the Day, that since hath proved 

Two hundred years of light. 

Then did a new creation glow 

With Order's primal rays ; 

While here the sons of God below 

First sang Jehovah's praise 
2 



18 T HE DI SMA. 

The desert opened like a flower 

Unfolding to the sun ; 
And great the work for every hour, 

Two hundred years have done ! 

The earth, beneath the genial sway 

Of Culture's wand, unsealed 
The wealth that in her lay, — 

Her quickening powers revealed. 
But richer, — purer, — unconfined 

To time or earthly sphere, 
The spirit-gems, the wealth of mind 

"With lineal birthright here. 

Behold the civil beauty shed 

In wide display around ; — 
The fields with summer's bounty spread, 

And hills with harvests crowned! 
While finite eye must fail to trace 

The shining marks of soul, 
That, dating this its starting-place, 

Has fixed in Heaven the goal! 



THE DIOSMA. 19 

To-day upon the spot we stand, 

Where kneeled our sires of yore, 
Imploring blessing for the land, 

When they should be no more. 
To this they bore the ark of God, 

And left it to their heirs ; — 
They left our priest the budding rod 

That blossoms now and bears. 

And, while in yonder quiet graves 

Their hallowed ashes rest, 
Their children, moving as the waves, 

Still guard the dear bequest. 
And lo ! in joyous bands we come, 

Our votive wreaths to twine, 
As brethren to a father-home, 

Round Memory's hallowed shrine. 

We come their honored names to bless, 

Their story to prolong, 
Who startled here the wilderness 

With Zion's pealing song ; — 



20 THE DIOSMA. 

While bending o'er the battlement 
Of Heaven, they now behold 

The spot whereto their footsteps bent 
In earthly days of old. 

To that illustrious ancestry 

We'll sing aloud our claim, 
While marching to eternity 

In their Redeemer's name. 
Two hundred years of gospel-beams, 

Diffusing joy and peace, 
Have here been poured in swelling streams 

Of glory ne'er to cease ! 

H. F. GOULD. 
August 2d, 1850. 



THE D 10 SMA. 21 



THE THREE GUESTS. 

The world was dark, and comfortless, and chill, 
The haunt of sordid care, and hideous ill ; 
Till three bright guests, beyond all utterance bright, 
Trod the dull orb, and woke it into light. 

First, Beauty came, from soft Idalian bowers, 
Nursed with the stealthy dew of summer flowers : 
She came, with faltering step and downcast eye ; 
She came, with mantling blush and melting sigh; 
She came, with brow of sway, and glance of flame, 
Or coy, or tender, or triumphant, — came. 
In each mood various, as in each supreme, 
She scattered conquest from her rosy beam, — 
Subdued alike the needy heirs of toil, 
The lords of luxury, — the sons of spoil ; — 
Each sterner passion in its turn controlled, — 
The thirst of empire, and the lust of gold; 



22 THE DIOSMA. 

And saw before her bow the wise, — the brave ; — 
Csesar her suppliant, — Solomon her slave ! 

Next bounded forth young Poesy: — her hair 
In golden tresses floated to the air ; 
Her roving eye a wayward lustre shed, 
But lofty Thought sat throned on her head. 
Calm as a seraph, — sportive as a child, 
She trod the rocky beach, or heathy wild. 
On Ilion's mound her earliest laurel gr^w 
Rich with the freshness of immortal dew : 
She nursed 'mid Attic rills her tragic vein. 
By smooth Colonus, and iEgina's main ; 
To softer raptures, thrilled the lyre awhile, 
With love-taught Sappho in her Lesbian isle ; 
Urged o'er Olympia's course the foaming steed ; 
In Doric valleys tuned the past'ral reed ; 
Pealed the high harp on Mincio's sedgy tide ; 
Breathed the soft lute on Arno's vine-clad side ; 
Nor yet withheld some notes from Britian's clime, 
Nor all unworthy of her elder time. 



THE DIOSMA. 23 

And still where'er the vocal strain arose, 
'Mid torrid fervors, or eternal snows, 
Through every large variety of man, — 
Savage or sage, — the soft infection ran. 
Before the magic of her chorded shell, 
The captive's chain, the tyrant's madness, fell ; 
And Nature's jarring discord paused to hear 
The borrowed language of a higher sphere. 

I turned again : — the minstrel's fire was spent ! 
I gazed around: — the lover's heart was rent! 
Neglect, and penury, and change, and death, 
Spared not the glowing form or gifted breath : 
But quenched, in one stern blight of cold decay, 
Love's purple gleam, and Fancy's meteor ray ! 

Where are ye, solaces of human kind? 
I looked, — and Piety remained behind. 
Upon her radiant cheek, and brow serene, 
No fevered throb, — no fitful flush was seen : 
'Mid every changing tide of various life, — 
The gaudy sunshine, or the stormy strife, 



24 THE DIOSMA. 

She calmly shook from her resplendent veil 

The puny drivings of each passing gale ; 

Gave to the earth her transient smile or sigh : 

Her undetached communion, to the sky. 

Yet, while she longed for that celestial sphere 

Without a limit, and without a tear, 

Still her bright presence, with reflected glow 

Diffused her own serenity below, — 

The conscious presage of an endless rest, 

The nether heaven of a pardoned breast. 

LORD MORPETH. 



THE DIOSMA. 25 



HOPE. 

Again, again she comes ! — methinks I hear 

Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing wings ! 
My heart goes forth to meet her, — with a tear, 

And welcome sends, from all its broken strings ! 
It was not thus, — not thus we met of yore, 

When my plumed soul went half-way to the sky 
To greet her ; and the joyous song she bore 

Was scarce less tuneful than its glad reply. 
The wings are fettered to the weight of years, 
And grief has spoiled the music with her tears ! 

She comes ! — I know her by her starry eyes, 
I know her by the rainbow in her hair, — 

Her vesture of the light of summer skies ; 
But gone the girdle that she used to wear 

Of summer roses ; and the sandal-flowers, 
That hung, enamored, round her fairy feet, 



26 THE DIOSMA. 

When, in her youth, she haunted earthly bowers : 

And culled from all their beautiful and sweet : — 
No more she mocks me with the voice of mirth ; 
Xor offers now, the garlands of the earth ! 

Come back ! come back ! thou hast been absent long 

Oh ! welcome back, the sibyl of my soul ! 
Who comes, and comes again, with pleading strong, 

To offer to the heart her mystic scroll : 
Though every year she wears a sadder look, 

And sings a sadder song ; and, every year, 
Some further leaves are torn from out her book, 

And fewer what she brings, and far more dear. 
As once she came, oh ! might she come again, 
With all her perished volumes offered then ! 

But come ! — thy coming is a gladness yet, — 
Light from the present o'er the future cast, 

That makes the present bright, — but, oh ! regret 
Is present sorrow, while it mourns the past, 

And memory speaks, as speaks the curfew bell, 
To tell the daylight of the heart is done, — 



THE DIOSMA. 27 

Come like the seer of old, and with thy spell, 

Put back the shadow of that setting sun 
On my soul's dial ; and with new-born light, 
Hush the wild tolling of that voice of night ! 

Bright Spirit, come ! — the mystic rod is thine, 

That shows the hidden fountains of the breast ; 
And turns, with point unerring, to divine 

The places where its buried treasures rest, — 
It* hoards of thought and feeling : — at that spell, 

Methinks I feel its long-lost wealth revealed, — 
And ancient springs within my spirit well, 

That grief had choked, and ruins had concealed, — 
And sweetly spreading, where their waters play, 
The tints and freshness of its early day. 

She comes ! she comes ! her voice is in mine ear, — 
Her mild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings for ever, — 

Whose streams of song sweet thoughts awake to hear, 
Like flowers that haunt the margin of a river ! 

o 

And if she sings more solemn music now, 

And bears another harp than erst she bore, — 



28 THE DIOSIA. 

And if around her form no longer glow 

Those earthly flowers, that in her youth she wore, — 
That look is holier, and that song more sweet, 
And Heaven's bright flowers, — the stars ! — are at her feet. 

T. K. HERVEY. 



THE DIOSMA. 29 



THE POOR MAN'S HYMN, 

Why, for a hoard of gold, should I 

Like yonder squallid miser fare : 
Or for the purple vestments sigh, 

That sting the monarch's soul with care ? 
Can the mean pittance of their gems, 

Their stately ships that ride the sea, 
Their sceptres, or their diadems, 

Add, or take aught away from me f 

These are my wants, — a simple scroll, 

My food, my raiment, and my hearth ; 
Where, with the chosen of my soul, 

I proudly rise above the earth ! 
There are my riches, — in the vales. 

The hill-sides too are gemmed with gold 
And whispering angels on the gales, 

Bring all that's needful 'to my fold. 



30 THE DIOSMA. 

This is my fold, — the heart within, 

Where answering smiles that meet my own, 
Are gifts I need not thirst to win, 

And won, are worthier than a throne ! 
The miser is a drudge, — a slave, 

Who never can his task fulfil ! 
He nobly free, who does not crave 

To weave a living web of ill ! 

Not while the azure sky is bright, 

And sparkling whither may I turn, 
While all the earth is robed in light 

From rays that heaven-reflected burn; 
Not while these flowers perpetual spring 

Beneath the dew-drop and the sun, 
Would I exchange with haughtiest king, 

Or ask the crown that crime has won! 

Nay ! for enough, is all I care 

To delve or sorrow as I go ; 
And I would always hope to share 

That little with the loved below. 



THE DIOSMA. 31 

Kings to the dust their heads must bow, 
When life ebbs out, ? mid grief and pain, — 

I tear no jewels from my brow, 

Nor weep to meet mine own again ! 

c. D. STUART. 



32 THE DIOSMA. 



SHADOWS OF MEMORY, 

I shut my eyes, when I would summon all 

From Memory's hall ; 
The friends I've lost with time, — and* each event 

Of life misspent ; 
I summon all before me with shut eyes, 
And inward sight that outward gaze defies. 

The images of Memory, — are they bright 

In this strange light? 
Or do they cast around my mental room 

A shadowy gloom? 
Or do, by fits, the faces of the dead 
A sunshine o'er my lonely musing shed? 

Not all in gloom, — not all in colors dim 
Their shadows swim 



THE DIOSMA. 33 

Beside me, — but with loveliness that looks 

Like stars on brooks, 
As though they warmed the waters cool and bright, 
By the pure fervency of their pale light: 

Faces arise before me, — never more 

On earth's sad shore 
To beam with life ; and yet I see them near, 

And feel no fear : 
I look upon them, and within their eyes 
Behold such tenderness as never dies ! 

Yet death is there ! And sudden falls a gloom, 

As o'er a tomb 
The cypress droops, and drooping, drops cold dew ! 

And then, anew, 
The spirit sinks within me, — and the day 
Declines beneath the night's coming clouds of grey! 

And thus, by turns, are shadows fair and dark, 

From Memory's ark, 
3 



34 THEDIOSMA. 

Summoned before me ; but while Hope weaves bright 

Raiment of light 
About my soul, all Nature, too, shines fair, 
Peace all around, and Beauty everywhere. 

CALDER CAMPBELL. 



THE DIOSMA. 35 



THE FOUNTAIN'S DEPTHS. 

The fountain's depths were dim and chill, 

Though summer shined upon the plain, 
Though gaily sang the tinkling rill, 

And softly chimed the distant main. 
The blossoms springing by its side, 

Shed down their hues upon its wave ; 
Yet still its ever-gushing tide 

Was calm and voiceless as the grave. 

The autumn wind went whistling by, 

The dead leaves whirling far and wide ; 
Yet, still no voice of sympathy 

From those untroubled depths replied. 
The upper waters might be stirred ; 

The fringing grass and rushes, thrill ; 
But from its heart no sound was heard, — 

Its source was all serene and still. 



THE DIOSMA. 

But when there came a quiet night, 

And winds were sleeping in their caves, 
The placid stars, with holy light, 

Shone down upon its inmost waves. 
Then fell there, from the cloudless skies 

Unto its depths so coldly clear, 
The light of those immortal eyes 

That gladden Heaven's pure atmosphere. 

And by a silent under-spring, 

The gentle waters ebb away, 
To where the leaping streamlets fling 

A thousand sparkles to the day. 
May not the fountain's depths impart 

Some image of the hidden worth 
Of an unworldly, peaceful heart, 

Thus lit from heaven, thus gladdening earth! 

M. A. BROWNE. 



THE DIOSMA. 37 



BRIDAL SERENADE 



BY A MODERN WELCH HARPER. 



Wilt thou not waken, Bride of May, 
While flowers are fresh, and the sweet bells chime ? 
listen, — and learn from my roundelay, 
How all Life's pilot-boats sailed, one day, 
A match with Time ! 

Love sat on a lotus-leaf afloat, 
And saw old Time in his loaded boat: 
Slowly he crossed Life's narrow tide ; 
Whilst Love sat clapping his w r ings, and cried, 
" Who will pass Time ? " 

Patience came first, but soon was gone, 
With helm and sail, to help Time on! 
Care and Grief could not lend an oar; 
And Prudence said, (while she staid on shore,) 
" I wait for Time ! " 



38 THE DIOSMA. 

Hope filled with flowers her cork-tree bark, 
And lighted its helm with a glow-worm spark : 
Then, Love, when he saw her boat fly past, 
Said, "Lingering Time will soon be passed, — 
Hope outspeeds Time ! " 

Wit went nearest old Time to pass, 
With his diamond oar, and his boat of glass : 
A feathery dart from his store he drew, 
And shouted, while far and swift it flew, 
"Oh, Mirth kills Time!" 

His gossamer sails he spread with speed ; 
But Time has wings, when Time has need ! 
Swiftly he crossed Life's narrow tide, 
And only Memory staid, to chide 
Unpitying Time. 

Wake, and listen, then, Bride of May ! 
Listen, and heed thy minstrel's lay : 
Still for thee some bright hours stay ; 
For it was a hand like thine, they say, 

Gave wings to Time. anonymous. 



THE DI OSIA 



THE MAIDEN FROM AFAR. 

Once, in a vale, each infant year, 

When earliest larks first carol free, 
To humble shepherds would appear 

A wondrous maiden fair to see. 
Not born within that lowly place, — 

From whence she wandered, none could tell ; 
Her parting footsteps left no trace, 

When once the maiden sighed farewell. 

And blessed was her presence there, — 

Each heart, expanding, grew more gay ; 
Yet something loftier still than fair 

Kept man's familiar looks away. 
From fairy gardens, known to none, 

She brought mysterious fruits and flowers, — 
The things of some serener sun, — 

Some Nature more benign than ours. 



40 THEDIOSMA. 

With each, her gifts the maiden shared; 

To some the fruits, the flowers to some : 
Alike the young, the aged fared ; 

Each bore a blessing back to home. 
Though every guest was welcome there, 

Yet some the maiden held more dear; 
And culled her rarest sweets, whene'er 

She saw two hearts that loved, draw near. 

FROM THE GERMAN OP SCHILLER. 



THEDIOSMA. 41 



MUSIC. 

Music? A blessed angel! She was born 

Within the palace of the King of kings, — 

A favorite near his throne. In that glad child 

Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits pne ; 

And her, the heir to everlasting life ! 

When his bright hosts would give him highest praise, 

They send her forward with her dulcet voice, 

To pour their holy rapture in his ear. 

When the young earth to being started forth, 

Music lay sleeping in a bower of Heaven : 

A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed 

With living waters; and the sparkling cup 

For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink. 

While o'er her brow a tender halo shone, 
Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined 
Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear, 
The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips 



42 THE DIOSMA. 



The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them. 
Dropped o'er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid 
Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye ; 
But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went, 
At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast, 
And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep, 
With one fair hand thrown o'er its silent strings, 
Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre, 
To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed 
Of the sweet uses she might make of it 
To numbers yet untried. 

"When, suddenly, 
A shout of joy from all the sons of God, 
Rang through His courts : and then the thrilling call, 
" Wake ! sister Music, wake, and hail with us 
A new-created sphere ! " 

She woke ! She rose ; 
She moved among the morning stars, and gave 
The birth-song of a world. 

Our infant globe, 
With life's first pulse, rolled in its ether bed, 
Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon, 



THE DIOSMA. 43 

Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays : 

Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched 

Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here ; 

And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade, 

Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower. 

As earth, on every side, shone fair to Heaven, 

Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained, 

Music, from her celestial walks looked down, 

And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills, 

Sing through the silent forests, — in the vales, — 

Beside the silver waters pour her sounds ; 

And multiply her numbers by the rocks ! 

She longed to give it voice to speak to God ; 

And, being told of her blest minstrelsy, 

Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings 

Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised, 

And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight. 

Made viewless by the circumambient air, 
And scattering voices to its feathered tribes, 
As down she hastened to the shining sphere, 
The happy angel reached the beauteous earth. 
At her electric touch, young Nature smiled, 



44 THE DIOSMA. 

And kindled into rapture ; then broke forth 
With thousand, thousand songs. 

The green turf woke ; 
The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore, 
The busy bee upon his honied flower; 
Osier and reed became iEolian lyres ; 
Trees bore sweet minstrels ; while rock, hill, and dell 
Sang to each other in a joyous round. 
Man, that mysterious instrument of God, 
When the warm soul of new-descended power 
Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice, 
Chanting, " Jehovah ! " 

Since that blessed hour, 
While still her home is Heaven, Music has ne'er 
This darkened world forsaken. She delights, 
Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace, 
To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart ; 
And lends her wings to waft it to the skies. 

She throws a lustre o'er Devotion's face ; 
Drinks off the tear from Sorrow's languid eye ; 
Tames wild Despair ; brings Hope a brighter bloom ; 
Lulls Hate to rest ; Love's ruffled bosom smooths ; 



THE DIOSMA. 45 

Pours honey into many a bitter cup ; 

And often gives the black and heavy hour 

A downy breast and pinions tipped with light. 

She steals all balmy through the prisoner's grates, 
Making that sad one half forget their use. 
With holy spell she binds the exile's heart, 
And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds. 
Kings are her lovers, — cottagers her loves : 
The hero and the pilgrim walk with her. 
Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy, 
And from the pillow of the dying saint, 
When a glad spirit borrows her light wings 
To practice for the skies, ere it unfolds 
Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay. 

True, by man's wanderings for his tempter's lure, 
Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet 
For purity like hers ; and made to bear 
Unhallowed burdens ; or, to join in rites 
To terpitude in fellest places held. 
Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailed 
O'er all things staining, still defies a stain ; 
And is at night withdrawn, and girded up, 



46 THE DIOSMA. 

Warm and untarnished for the morning skies, — 
She comes unsullied from her baser walks ; 
Sighs at the darkness, guilt and woe of earth ; 
Breathes Zion's air ; and, warmed with heavenly fire. 

Mounts to her glorious home ! 

■ 

'Twas she, who bore 
The first grand offering of the free, on high, 
When to the shore, through Egypt's solemn sea, 
The 'franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod, 
And paeans gave to their Deliverer there. 
She cheered the wanderers on ; and when they crossed 
Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe, 
Still she was with them; and her single breath 
Laid the proud Paynim's city-walls in dust ! 

In native light, she walked Judea's hills, 
And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower 
Before the Sun of righteousness arose. % 

The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips, 
Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess, 
To lift the heart's pure gift from her's to Heaven. 

When Israel's king was troubled, her soft hand 
Put close, but gently, to his gloomy breast, 



THE DIOSMA. 47 

Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still, 
Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept. 
And since, her countless thousands she has brought 
To Heaven's mild kingdom, happy captives led, 
By those sweet glowing strings of David's lyre. 

But, oh ! her richest, dearest notes to man, 
In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured, 
When He, whose brightness is the light of Heaven, 
To earth descending for a mortal's form, 
Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark, 
That moved through * space, and o'er the infant hung, 
He summoned Music to attend him here, 
Announcing peace below ! 

He called her, too, 
To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine 
Her mantle round him, and his few, grieved friends: 
To join their mournful spirits with the hymn, 
Ere to the Mount of Olives he went out 
So sorrowful. 

And now, his blessed word, 
A sacred pledge, is left to dying man, 
That at his second coming in his power, 



48 THE DIOSMA. 

Music shall still be with him ; and her voice 

Sound through the tombs, and wake the dead to life ! 

Then will her mission out of Heaven be o'er; 

Her end achieved ; her parents found again ; 

Her place for ever near the throne of God. 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE LIOSMA. 49 



A CHILD FALLEN ASLEEP AMID ITS SPORTS 

Wearied with pleasure ! Oh, how deep 

Such slumber seems to be, 
Thou fairy creature ! I could weep, 

As thus I gaze on thee : — 
Ay, weep, and with most bitter tears, 

Wrung from the spirit's core, 
To think that in a few short years 

Thou'lt sleep that sleep no more. 

Wearied with pleasure ! What a sound 

To greet a world- worn ear ! 
Can we, who tread life's giddy round, 

Sleep like the cherub here ? 
Alas ! for us, joy's brightest hours 

All fever as they fly, 
And leave a blight, — as sun-struck flowers 

Of too much glory die. 



50 THE DIOSMA. 

Wearied with pleasure ! Does the wing 

Of angels fan thy brow? 
Sweet child, do birds about thee sing, 

And blossoms round thee blow ? 
Is thy calm sleep with gladness rife? 

Do stars above thee shine? 
Oh, I would give whole years of life, 

To dream such dreams as thine ! 

MISS PARDOE. 



THEDIOSMA. 51 



SONG OF DREAMS. 

In the the rosy glow of the evening cloud; 

In the twilight's gloom ; 
In the sultry noon, when the flowers are bowed, 

And the streams are dumb ; 
In the morning's beam, when the faint stars die 
On the brightening flood of the azure sky, 

We come ! 
Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears, 
Dark'ners of smiles, bright'ners of tears, 

We come ! 

We come where the babe on its mother's breast 

Lies in slumber deep; 
We flit by the maiden's couch of rest, 

And o'er her sleep 
We float, like the honey-laden bees, 
On the soft, warm breath of the languid breeze ; 



52 THE DIOSMA. 

And sweep 
Hues more beautiful than we bring 
From her lip and cheek, for each wandering wing 

To keep. 

We linger about the lover's bower, 

Hovering mute ; 
When he looks to the west for the sunset hour, 

And lists for the foot 
That falls so lightly on the grass, 
We scarely can hear its echo pass ; 

And we put 
In his heart all hopes, the radiant-crowned, 
And hang sweet voices and tones around 

His lute. 

We sit by the miser's treasure-chest, 

And near his bed ; 
And we watch his anxious heart's unrest; 

And in mockery tread, 
With a seeming heavy step about; 
And laugh, when we hear his frightened shout 



THE DIOSMA. 53 

Of dread, 
Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold did reign, 
To his hoards, to claim it back again, 

Have sped. 

But a sunnier scene, and a brighter sky, 

To-day are ours ; 
We have seen a youthful poet lie 

By a fountain's showers, 
With his upturned eyes, and his dreamy look, 
Reading the April sky's sweet book 

Writ by the hours ; 
And thinking those glorious thoughts that grow 
Untutored up in life's freshest glow, 

Like flowers. 

We will catch the richest and brightest hue 

Of the rainbow's rim, 
And the purest cloud that amidst the blue 

Of Heaven doth swim, — 
The clearest star-beam that shall be 
In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea 



54 THE DIOSMA. 

Grows dim; 
And a spirit of love about them breathe, 
And twine them all in a magic wreath 

For Him! 

M. A. BROWNE. 



THE DIOSMA. 55 



HOME. 

Home is not the land of our birth, 
Or the land of our dwelling ; though either should lie 
Where the suns and the showers of blest Campany's sky 

Pour joy on the jubilant earth. 

Home is not the hearth where we reign; 
Though the ceiling of cedar from porphyry walls 
Ascend o'er the tesselate floor of our halls, 

And round spread the princely domain. 

In the hut, in the tent, it may be ; 
'Mid the sands of the line, or the snows of the pole : 
Or, driven by the night-howling hurricane, roll 

Far, far, o'er the surge of the sea ! 

It is found, and found only, with one ; 
The loving and trusting, — the trusted and loved ; 
Tho' by mountain and flood from our presence removed. 

— Sea, continent, climate, or zone. 



56 THE DIOSMA. 

It is whither, 'mid pleasure, we turn, 
With the thought, how the best of our pleasures are void, 
By the dear distant angel of Home unenjoyed, 

For whose presence all else we would spurn. 

It is where, amid anguish and grief, 
All calm on the pallet of straw we can lie ; 
Since Love's ready hand is still near, to supply, — 

Oh, call it not coldly, — relief! 

It is where our success we proclaim 
"With a joy, yea, a pride, which no vanity knows; 
For we speak but to kindle the smile that bestows 

All beauty and lustre on Fame. 

'Tis the refuge from calumny, care, 
Vexation, and failure ; 'tis where we can pour 
Each thought in a heart which to Death can restore 

Vitality, — hope to despair ; — 

Where, when friends of the hour disapprove; 
And join with the selfish, the base, and unkind, 
Our words and our actions unfailingly find 

One gentle interpreter, — Love ; — 



THE BIOSMA. 57 

Where the prayer rises warm for our weal, 
When we wander afar; where the heart's deepest thought, 
In love and in trembling, all free and untaught, 

To the dear distant pilgrim will steal ; — 

Where the welcome springs blithe at our name : 
The gladsome salute, and the eager caress ; 
Where each wish is forestalled ere the lip can express, — 

Perchance, ere the fancy can frame. 

But is there such a place to be found? 
Ah, no! if none else be the home of the heart, 
How many all homeless shall live and depart, 

Though opulent, titled, and crowned! 

There is, if we seek Him aright ; 
There is One we may fearlessly love and believe ; 
Who will not, who can not forsake or deceive ; 

And whose love is the type of His might. 

Without His glad presence, the best 
That earth can bestow, is insipid and poor ; 
With Him, on the bed of affliction, secure 

In His love and protection we rest. 



58 THE DIOSMA. 

To Him our poor deeds we may bring ; 
Imperfect and sullied, He smiles at them still : 
To Him we may flee for redress in each ill, 

And, unharmed, in adversity cling. 

He advocates, seeks, and relieves, 
From our home when our erring affections would stray ; 
He welcomes with blessings our homeward-found way, 

Above all the heart asks or conceives. 

Then, lonely one, lift up thine eye ! 
Though from earth's passing homes by ingratitude driven, 
No human malevolence bars thee from Heaven ! 

Look up ! for thy Home is on high ! 

REV. H. THOMPSON. 



THE DIOSMA. 59 



TREES FOR THE PILGRIM'S WREATH. 

Knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, 
and experience hope ; and hope maketh not ashamed. 

Romans, v., 3-5. 

Tribulation, if by loss, 
Or by thorny gain, the cross, 
Thou art not a barren tree, — 
Seeds of Patience drop from thee. 

Patience, bitter from thy root, 
Upward, till we reach the fruit, 
Thou hast golden grains to sow, 
Whence Experience full shall grow. 

Broad Experience, rank and dark; 
Thick in leaves, and rough in bark; 
Through thy dubious shade we grope, 
Till we grasp the bough of Hope ! 



60 THE DIOSMA. 

Hope, we're not ashamed, with thee 
Showered by drops from Calvary, — 
When thy branches shoot and bloom 
Through a Saviour's broken tomb. 

Trees, whereof the Pilgrim weaves, 
For his crown, the mingled leaves, 
Wreaths of you are rich and bright ; 
Earth's the shade, and Heaven's the light. 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DI SM A. 61 



SONG OF HOPE. 

There is a hope, a radiant hope, 

That warms the heart of youth ; 
And bids it deem this vale of tears 

A Paradise of truth. 
It tells of firm, devoted love 

That knows not how to change ; 
Of faithful and enduring friends, 

Who grow not cold and strange ; 
Of sunny days and starry nights 

On life's untroubled sea: 
Such was the first delusive hope 

That cast a spell o'er me. 

There is a hope, more dazzling still, 
That glads our riper years : 

With stirring, busy images 
The eager mind it cheers. 



62 THE DIOSMA. 

It tells of scenes of courtly state, 

And sounds of silvery praise, — 
The coronal of flashing gems, — 

The wreath of envied bays. 
Amid earth's great and gifted ones 

It bids us proudly be : 
Such was the second cheating hope 

That cast a spell o'er me. 

There is a hope divine and pure, — 

A hope that never dies ! 
It dwells upon a glorious land, 

Beyond the vaulted skies ; 
And bids us lift our chastened thoughts 

Earth's vanities above : 
It aids us to support the loss 

Of human faith and love ; 
It tells us of a future life 

With spirits blest and free : 
Such is my last, best hope, Lord! 

A hope that rests on Thee. 

MRS. ABDY. 



THE BIOS MA . 63 



THE SOLITARY MAN. 

He had not sought the joy sublime, 

Nor made the goodly pearl secure, 
That will defy the power of time, 

And through eternity endure. 
And yet, he needed them ; for all 

His fondly-cherished hopes had fled ; 
And peace to him was past recall, — 

He lived, while those he loved were dead ! 

His spirit bowed not in his grief 

For balm, before his Father's throne : 
From sympathy he shunned relief, 

And moved in crowds, but felt alone. 
He bent his footsteps to the tomb, 

A sad and solitary man; 
And there, 'mid silence, death, and gloom, 

To kindred dust his plaint began : — 



64 THE BIOSMi. 

" I stand, while all around me lie 

Composed in slumber long and deep : 
Where darkness sits on every eye, 

'Tis mine alone to wake and weep ! 
Amid the hearts that once would leap 

In welcome of my coming feet, 
I feel my lonely life-stream creep ; 

For not another breast will beat. 

"The arms that spread so quick to twine 

Around me, now no more I fill : 

i 

The hand, once fondly locked in mine, 
Is here beside me, cold and still. 

I sigh, I feel, I think alone ; 

For not a dream is passing here. — 

'Tis all oblivion! and my groan 
Unheeded falls on every ear. 

"And have the ties affection wove 
So close, so tender, ended thus ? 

Does nature form our souls for love 
To sport with, and to torture us? 



THE DIOSMA, 65 

I long this weary load of life 

To lay aside, and be at rest, — 
To end at once the pain and strife 

That slowly now consume my breast. 

" But earth ! earth ! earth ! it is not so 

That I may yet thy part dismiss ; 
And forth to other scenes I go, 

With all my soul confined to this ! 
For, when the busy world shall claim 

That I amid its throngs appear, 
I shall be there in form and name, 

While all beside will linger here. 

" I now must join the noisy crowd, 
To hold their pleasures light as air ; 

Yet, not like one whom grief has bowed, 
Or sorrow marked, will I be there. 

The world's rude hand I would not trust 
Too near my bosom's bleeding strings ; 

For these, beloved and hallowed dust ! 

'Twixt God and us are sacred things. 
5 



66 THE DIOSMA. 

" Its careless eye shall never see 

The wounds it has no balm to heal : 
Its look of pity, turned on me, 

I would not, — could not bear to feel. 
Before it I will wear a smile, 

To veil the void it can not fill ; 
Though deep within my breast the while 

I feel the arrow rankling still. 

" The light of mirth may then be found 

Upon my lip, but there alone : 
My voice may even mock its sound, 

To drown my weeping spirit's moan. 
But what's the heartless world to me, 

Since ye, my loved ones, slumber here? 
I stand on earth, a blighted tree, 

With winter round me all the year ! " 

" Thou barren tree ! " a voice then said, 
And to his soul : " with leaves and flowers 

I've clothed thee M r ell ; and o'er thee shed 
The richest gifts of sun and showers ! 



THE DIOSMA. 67 

And now, if I should cut thee down, 

For giving back no fruit to me, 
To lie beneath my withering frown, 

It were not rest and peace for thee ! 

"An earthly, dark, and sterile heart 

Yields not the fruits of faith and love, 
That should, for thine immortal part, 

Be ripened here, and stored above. 
Frail man! thy Maker's hand is kind 

In each severe and chastening blow: 
The gold that is for Heaven refined, 

It tries and polishes below ! " 

H. F. GOULD. 



68 THE DIOSMA 



VESPER HOUR. 

When vesper hour, with stilly spell, 

Shall lead thee to her hermit cell, 

Chasing from round thy path away 

The varied visions of the day; 

When no vain dreams thy thoughts may share, 

No lonely hope, no earth-born care ; 

What time thou bend'st the suppliant knee, 
And pour'st thy fervent soul in prayer, 

Think of me, — pray for me, — for me ! 

Too garish glows the golden day, — 
Blend not my memory with its ray, 
The tissue of its hopes and fears, 
Its promises of other years, — 
But when the chastened hour is come, 
That bids my fancy cease to roam; 



THE DIOSMA, 69 

And when thy soul, from trammels free, 

Is soaring to the spirit's home, 
Think of me, — pray for me, — for me ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



70 THE DIOSMA 



THE RISING EAGLE. 

My bird, the struggle's over ! 

Thy wings at length unfurled, 
Will bear thee, noble rover! 

Through yon blue airy world. 
Thy fearless breast has shaken 

Earth's dew and dust away; 
Thine eye its aim has taken; 

Its mark the orb of day. 

Up, up ! the faster leaving 

Thy rocky nest below, 
A fresher strength receiving, 

The lighter shalt thou go. 
The clouds that now hang o'er thee 

Thou soon shalt over-sweep, 
Where all is bright before thee, 

To swim the upper deep. 



THE DIOSMi. 71 

Through seas of ether sailing, 

Thou lofty, valiant one ! 
The breath of morn inhaling, 

Thy course is to the sun! 
The strife was all in lifting 

Thy breast from earth, at first, — 
The poising, and the shifting, 

To balance, was the worst. 

And so with us ; — 'tis spreading 

Our pinions for the skies, 
That keeps us low, and dreading 

The first essay to rise. 
'Tis rousing up, and getting 

Our balance, that we shun: 
With thousand ties besetting, 

We shrink from breaking one. 

But when we've fairly started, 

And cleared from all below, 
How free and buoyant-hearted, 

On eagle-wings we go ! 



72 THE DIOSMA. 

And as our bosoms kindle 

With pure and holy love, 
How all below will dwindle, 

And all grow bright above ! 

The world that we are leaving 

Looks little in our sight, 
While, clouds and shadows cleaving, 

We seek the Source of Light! 
Rise, timid soul, and casting 

Aside thy doubt and fear, 
Mount up, where all is lasting ; 

For all is dying here ! 

Then, as an eagle training 

Her tender young to fly, 
A Hand, that's all-sustaining, 

Will lift thee to the sky. 
While higher, higher soaring, 

Thou' It feel thy cares are drowned, 
Where Heaven's bright Sun is pouring 

A flood of glory round ! h. f. gould. 



THE DIOSMA 



THE SLEEPING CHILD. 

A brook went dancing on its way, 

From bank to valley leaping ; 
And by its sunny margin lay 

A lovely infant sleeping. 
The murmur of the purling stream 

Broke not the spell that bound him, 
Like music breathing in his dream 

A lullaby around him. 

It is a lovely sight, to view, 

Within this world of sorrow, 
One spot which still retains the hue 

That earth from Heaven may borrow ! 
And such was this, — a scene so fair, 

Arrayed in summer brightness, 
And one pure being resting there, — 

One soul of radiant whiteness I 



74 THE DIOSMA. 

'What happy dreams, fair child, are given 

To cast their sunshine o'er thee? 
What cord unites that soul to Heaven? 

What visions glide before thee? — 
For wandering smiles of cloudless mirth 

O'er thy glad features beaming, 
Say, not a thought, — a form of earth 

Alloys thine hour of dreaming. 

Mayhap, afar on viewless wings 

Thy sinless spirit soaring, 
Now hears the burst from golden strings 

Where angels are adoring; 
And with the pure heliacal throng, 

Around their Maker praising, 
Thy joyous heart may join the song 

Ten thousand tongues are raising ! 

Sleep, lovely babe! — for time's cold touch 
Will make these visions wither ; — 

Youth, and the dreams that charm so much, 
Shall fade and fly together. 



THE DIOSMA. 75 

Then, sleep, — while sleep is pure and mild, 

Ere earthly ties grow stronger, 
When thou shalt be no more a child, 

And dream of Heaven no longer. 

LEIGH HUNT. 



76 THE DI0SM1. 



THOUGHT AND DEED. 

Full many a light thought man may cherish, 
Full many an idle deed may do ; 

Yet not a deed or thought shall perish, — 
Not one but he shall bless or rue. 

When by the wind the tree is shaken, 
There's not a bough or leaf can fall, 

But of its falling heed is taken 

By One who sees, and governs all. 

The tree may fall, and be forgotten, 
And buried in the earth remain ; 

Yet, from its juices rank and rotten, 
Springs vegetating life again. 

The world is with creation teeming, 

And nothing ever wholly dies ; 
And things that are destroyed in seeming, 

In other shapes and forms arise. 



THE DIOSMA. 77 

And nature still unfolds the tissue, 
Of works unseen, by spirit wrought ; 

And not a work but hath its issue 
With blessings or with evil fraught. 

Thou now may'st seem to leave behind thee 

All memory of the sinful past ; 
Yet, oh ! be sure, thy sin shall find thee, 

And thou shalt know its fruits at last. 

ANONYMOUS. 



78 THE DIOSMA 



THE WEEPER DEMENTED. 

Saw ye the mourner, reclining 

Where the damp earth was her bed, 
Where the young ivy-vines twining, 

Mantled the house of the dead? 
Heard ye the voice of the weeper 

Rise with the herald of day, 
Calling aloud to the sleeper, — 

Bidding him hasten away ? 

Felt ye her wild notes of sorrow 

Thrilling the bosom to pain? 
Dark is the wanderer's morrow, — 

Soon she'll be sleeping again. 
Dim is her life's glimmering taper ; 

Fast is she sinking to rest ! 
Soon will the chill evening vapor 

Gather, unfelt, o'er her breast. 



THE DIOSMA. 79 

Grief hath so keenly been wearing 

String after string from her heart, 
Death's icy finger is bearing 

On the last thread that can part ! 
Earth's bitter cup she hath tasted 

Never replenished shall be ; 
Time's rapid sand-grains are wasted, — 

Joy ! for her spirit is free ! 

She who so lately was weeping, 

Stricken, bewildered, and lorn, 
Now is all peacefully sleeping, — 

Clouds cannot darken her morn ! 
O'er her sweet rose-tree and myrtle, 

When the dreai^ cypress had grown, 
She was the poor moaning turtle, 

Now to the balsam-tree flown. 

H. F. GOULD. 



80 THEDIOSMA. 



A LONG WHILE AGO. 

Still hangeth down the old accustomed willow, 

Hiding the silver underneath each leaf; 
So droops the long hair from some maiden pillow, 

When midnight heareth her else silent grief. 
There floats the water-lily, like a sovereign, 

Whose lovely empire is a fairy world ; 
The purple dragon-fly above it hovering, 

As when its fragile ivory uncurled, 

A long while ago. 

I hear the bees, in sleepy music winging 

From the wild thyme where they have passed the noon ; 

There is the blackbird in the hawthorn singing, 

Stirring the white spray with the same sweet tune ; 

Fragrant the tansy breathing in the meadow, 

As the west wind bends down the long green grass, 

Now dark, now golden, as the fleeting shadow 



THE DI SMA . 81 

Of the light clouds, as they were wont to pass 
A long while ago. 

There are the roses which they used to gather 

To bind a fair young brow, no longer fair ; — 
Ah ! art thou mocking us, thou summer weather, 

To be so sunny, with the loved one ? — where ? 
'Tis not her voice, — 'tis not her step, — that lingers 

In lone familiar sweetness on the wind ! 
The bee, the bird, are now the only singers ; — 

Where is the music soft with theirs combined 
A long while ago ? 

As the lorn flowers that in her pale hand perished, 

Is she who only hath a memory here ! 
She was so much a part of us, so cherished, — 

So young, — that even love forgot to fear. 
Now is her image paramount, — it reigneth 

With a sad strength that time may not subdue ; 
And memory a mournful triumph gaineth, 

As the cold looks we cast around, renew 

A long while ago. 
6 



82 THE DIOSMA. 

Tliou lovely garden ! where the summer covers 

The tree with green leaves, and the ground with flowers 
Darkly they pass ; — around thy beauty hovers 

The past, — the grave of our once happy hours. 
It is too sad, to gaze upon the seeming 

Of nature's changeless loveliness, and feel 
That, with the sunshine round, the heart is dreaming 

Darkly o'er wounds inflicted, not to heal, 
A long while ago. 

Ah, visit not the scenes where youth and childhood 

Passed years that deepened as those years went by! 
Shadows will darken in the careless wild wood, — 

There will be tears upon the tranquil sky. 
Memoirs, like phantoms, haunt me while I wander 

Beneath the drooping boughs of each old tree : 
I grow too sad, as mournfully I ponder 

Things that are not, and yet that used to be, 
A long while ago. 

Worn out, the heart seems, like a ruined altar ! 

Where are the friends, — - and where the faith of vore ? 



THE DIOSMA. 83 

My eyes grow dim with tears, — my footsteps falter, — 
Thinking of those whom I can love no more. 

We change, and others change, while recollection 
Fain would renew what it can but recall : 

Dark are life's dreams, and weary its affection, 
And cold its hopes, — and yet I felt them all, 
A long while ago. 

MISS LAXDOX. 



84 THEDIOSMA 



WEEP NOT FOR HER 



Weep not for her ; — her span is like the sky, 
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright ; 

like flowers that know not what it is to die, — 
Like long-linked shadeless months of polar light, - 

Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, 

While echo answers from the flowery brake : 
Weep not for her. 

Weep not for her ; — she died in early youth, 
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues ; — 

When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth, 
And earth still gleamed with beauty's radiant dew 

Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze. 

Her wine of life was not run to the lees : 
Weep not for her. 



THE DIOSMA. 85 

Weep not for her ; — by fleet or slow decay, 
It never grieved her tender heart, to mark 

The playmates of her childhood wane away, 

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark. 

Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, 

She passed, as 'twere, on smiles from earth to Heaven ! 
Weep not for her. 

Weep not for her ; — it was not hers to feel 
The mis'ries that corrode amassing years, — 

'Gainst years of baffled bliss the heart to steel ; — 
To wander, sad, down age's vale of tears, 

As whirl the withered leaves from friendship's tree, 

And on life's wintry earth alone to be : 
Weep not for her. 

Weep not for her ; — she is an angel now, 
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise ; 

All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, — 
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes ! 

Victorious over death to her appear 

The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year: 
Weep not for her. 



86 THE DIOSMA, 

Weep not for her ; — her memory is the shrine 

Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers ; 

Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, — 

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, — 

Rich as the rainbow with its hues of light, — 

Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : 
Weep not for her. 

Weep not for her ; — there is no cause of woe ! 

But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk 
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below, 

And from earth's low defilements hold thee back ; 
So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, 
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate, and lead thee on ! 
Weep not for her. 

D. M. MOIR. 



THEDIOSMA. 87 



THE DYING CHILD 

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping ; 

Let me repose upon thy bosom seek ; 
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping, 

Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek. 
Here it is cold ; the tempest raveth madly ; 

But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright : 
I see the angel children smiling gladly, 

When from my weary eyes I shut the light. 

Mother, one steals beside me now ! and, listen ; 

Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord ? 
See how his white wings beautifully glisten ! 

Surely those wings were given him by our Lord ! 
Green, gold, and red are floating all around me ; 

They are the flowers the angel scattereth : 
Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me ? 

Or, Mother, are they given alone in death ? 



88 THE DI08MA. 

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going ? 

Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine ? 
Thy cheek is hot, and still thy tears are flowing : 

I will, dear Mother, will be always thine ! 
Do not sigh thus, — it marreth my reposing ; 

And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee ! 
Oh, I am tired, — my weary eyes are closing ; 

Look, Mother, look ! the angel kisseth me ! 

FROM THE DANISH OF ANDERSON. 



THE DIOSMA. 39 



THE PLAYTHINGS. 

Oh ! Mother, here's the very top 

That brother used to spin, — 
The vase with seeds I've seen him drop 

To call our robin in, — 
The line that held his pretty kite, 

His bow, his cup and ball, — 
The slate on which he learned to write, 

His feather, cap and all ! 

My dear, I'd put the things away, 

Just where they were before : 
Go, Anna, take him out to play ; 

And shut the closet door. 
Sweet innocent ! he little thinks, 

The slightest thought expressed, 
Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks 

Within a mother's breast, h. f. gould. 



90 THE DIOSMA 



THE MOTHER'S DREAM 

And I will give him the morning star. 

Rev., ii., 28. 

Methotjght once more to my wishful eye 

My beautiful boy had come : 
My sorrow was gone ; my cheek was dry ; 

And gladness around my home. 

I saw the form of my dear, lost child ! 

All kindled with life he came ; 
And spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled. 

As soon as I called his name. 

The raiment he wore looked heavenly white, 
As the feathery snow comes down ; 

And warm, as it glowed in the softened light 
That fell from his dazzling crown. 



THE DI0S1EA. 91 

His eye was bright with, a joy serene, 

His cheek, with a deathless bloom, 
That only the eye of my soul hath seen 

When looking beyond the tomb. 

The odors of flowers from that fair land, 
Where we deem that our blest ones are, 

Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand 
Was holding a radiant star. 

His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair 

As the lily's opening bell, 
Half veiled in a glory-cloud, as there 

Around him in folds it fell. 

I asked him how he was clothed anew, — 

Who circled his head with light, — 
And whence he returned to meet my view, 

So calm and heavenly bright. 

I asked him where he had been so long 

Away from his mother's care, — 
Again to sing me his infant song, 

And to kneel by my side in prayer. 



02 THE DIOSMA. 

He said, " Sweet mother, the song I sing 

Is not for an earthly ear : 
I touch the harp with a golden string, 

For the hosts of Heaven to hear! 

" It was but a gently-fleeting breath 
That severed thy child from thee ! 

The fearful shadow, in time called Death, 
Hath ministered life to me. 

" My voice in an angel choir I lift ; 

And high are the notes we raise : 
I hold the sign of a priceless gift, 

And the Giver, who hath our praise. 



'"The bright and the Morning Star' is he, 

Who bringeth eternal day ! 
And, mother, he giveth himself to thee, 

To lighten thine earthly way. 

" The race is short to a peaceful goal, 

And He is never afar, 
Who saith of the wise, untiring soul, 

I will give him the Morning Star ! 



THE DI0SM1. 93 

" Thy measure of care for me was filled, 

And pure to its crystal top ; 
For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled 

And numbered every drop. 

" While thou wast teaching my lips to move, 

And my heart to rise, in prayer, 
I learned the way to a world above : — 

The home of thy child is there ! 

" The secret prayers thou didst make for me, 

Which only our God hath known, 
Have risen like incense fresh and free, 

And gathered about His throne. 

" My robe was filled with their perfume sweet, 

To shed upon this world's air, 
As I knelt with joy at my Saviour's feet, 

For the glorious crown I wear. 

" In that bright, beautiful world of ours 

The water of life I drink : 
Behold my feet, as they've pressed the flowers 

That grow by the fountain's brink ! 



04 THEDIOSMA. 

k • No thorn is hidden to wound me there ; 

There's nothing of chill, or blight, 
Or sighing, to trouble the balmy air ; — 

No sorrow, — no pain, — no night ! " 

'"No 'parting'}'''' I asked, with a burst of joy; 

And the lovely illusion broke ; 
The rapture had banished my angel boy, — 

To a shadowy void I spoke. 

But, oh ! that Star of the morn still beams, 

A light to direct my feet 
Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams, 

The mother and child may meet ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA. 



MAIDEN OF THE SUNNY B R W . 

Maiden of the sunny brow, 

Dost thou never sigh : 
Hast thou no dark hour, when flow 

Tear-drops from thine eye ? 
Heart, that never harbored guile ; 
Life, the home of beauty's smile ; 
Calm content, and thoughts that twine, 
Ever green, round feeling's shrine, — 

Maiden, they are thine ! 

Sunshine lights the forest bower, 

Passing soon away ; 
Yet, without its sister shower, 

What would be the ray ? 
Brighter, touched by chastening tears, 
Beam the young heart's hopes and fears 



98 THE DIOSMA. 

Sorrow Avears a charm divine, 
Gladness owns a holier shrine, — 
Maiden, they are thine ! 

HENRY BRANDRETH. 



THE DIOSMA 



SAFE COUNSEL. 

Follow that fervor, oh, devoted spirit, 

Wherewith thy Saviour's goodness fires thy breast! 
Go where it draws, and when it calls, oh, hear it ! 

It is thy Shepherd's voice, and leads to rest. 

In this, thy new devotedness of feeling, 
Suspicion, envy, anger, have no claim; 

Sure hope is highest happiness revealing, 

With peace, and gentleness, and purest fame. 

For in thy holy and thy happy sadness, 

If tears or sighs are sometimes sown by thee. 

In the pure regions of immortal gladness, 
Sweet and eternal shall thy harvest be. 



98 THE DIOSMA. 

Leave them to say, — " This people's meditation 
Is vain and idle ! " — sit with ear and eye 

.Steadfast on Christ, in child-like dedication, 
Oh, thou inhabitant of Bethany ! 

FROM THE ITALIAN" OF LORENZO DE' MEDICI. 



THE DIOSMA. 99 



THE DYING EXILE. 

Who will stand, when I shall pillow 

In the earth this aching head, 
Pensive, by the drooping willow, 

O'er my cold and lowly bed? 
There will be no pensive mother, 

Aged sire, nor constant friend ; — 
There will be no sister, brother, 

O'er my lonely grave to bend ! 

Strangers then will heedless bear me 

Where the stranger's dust may lie : 
Yet the tribute none will spare me 

Of a tear, while thus I die. 
They behold my life-string sever 

At the conqueror's final blow ; 
But the heart that's breaking, — never 

They its inward pangs shall know ! 



1 00 THE DIOSMA. 

Come, ye whispering winds of heaven, 

Take my sighs, — my long adieu 
To the country whence I'm driven, — 

To the friends to whom I'm true ! 
Let them know I've ceased to languish ; 

Tell them I am freed from pain, — 
That my bosom swelled with anguish, 

Till its cords all snapt in twain. 

Say, my last regrets were centered, — 

All my fondness, lingered there, — 
Till a blissful home I entered 

Free from banishment and care : 
Say, my glad, unburdened spirit 

Soared in triumph at the last ; — 
That a country I inherit 

Worth all sighs and sorrows past. 

Faith, and Hope, your strength is doubling ! 

Soon the land will be possessed 
" Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

Ajid the weary are at rest." 



THE DIOSMA. 101 

Death the mortal veil is rending, 

Lone, in foreign clods to lie ; 
Angels sweet the while descending, 

Come to waft me home on high ! 

H. F. GOULD, 



102 THE DIOSMA. 



MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS. 

I cannot to the city go, 

Where all in sound and sight 
Declares that Nature does not know 

Or do a thing aright ! 
To granite-wall, and tower, and dome 

My heart could never cling ; 
Its simple strings are tied to home, — 

To where the crickets sing. 

I'm certain I was never made 

To run a city race, 
Along a human palisade, 

That's ever shifting place. 
The bustle, fashion, art, and show, 

Were each a weary thing ; 
Amid them, I should sigh to go 

And hear the cricket sing. 



THE DIOSMA. 103 

If there, I might no longer be 

Myself, as now I seem, 
But lose my own identity, 

And walk as in a dream ; — 
Or else, with din and crowd oppressed, 

I'd wish for sparrow's wing, 
To fly away, and be at rest, 

Where, free, the crickets sing. 

The fire-fly, rising from the grass, 

A living, winged light, 
I would not give for all the gas 

That spoils their city sight. 
Not all the pomp and etiquette 

Of citizen, or king, 
Can make my rustic heart forget 

The song the crickets sing. 

I find in hall and gallery, 

Their figures tame and faint, 
To my wild bird, and brook, and tree, 

Without a touch of paint. 



104 THE DIOSMA. 

And from the finest instrument 
Of pipe, or key, or string, 

I'd turn away, and feel content 
To hear the cricket sing. 

Oh ! who could paint the placid moon, 

That's beaming through the bough 
Of yon old elm, or play the tune 

That sounds beneath it now ? 
Not all the silver of the mine, 

Nor human power, could bring 
Another moon like her to shine, 

Or make a cricket sing. 

I know that, when the crickets trill 

Their plaintive strains by night, 
They tell us that, from vale and hill, 

The summer takes her flight. 
And were there no renewing Power, 

'Twould be a mournful thing, 
To think of fading leaf and flower, 

And hear the crickets sins;. 



THE DIOSMA. 105 

But, why should change with sadness dim 

Our eye, when thought can range 
Through time and space, and fly to Him, 

Who is without a change ? 
For He, who meted out the year, 

Will give another spring : 
He rolls at once the shining sphere, 

And makes the cricket sing. 

And, when another autumn strips 

The summer-leaves away, — 
If cold and silent be the lips 

That breathed and moved to-day, — 
The time I've passed with Nature's God 

Will prove no spirit-sting ; 
And I adore him from the sod 

Whereon the crickets sing. 

H. F. GOULD. 



106 THE DIOSMA. 



HOME WHERE THE HEART IS 

'Tis home where'er the heart is, — 

Where'er its loved ones dwell, 
In cities, or in cottages, 

Thronged haunts, or mossy dell ! 
The heart's a rover ever; 

And thus on wave and wild, 
The maiden with her lover walks, — 

The mother with her child. 

T'is bright where'er the heart is ; 

Its fairy spells can bring 
Fresh fountains to the wilderness, 

And to the desert, spring. 
There are green isles in each ocean, 

O'er which affection glides ; 
And a haven on each distant shore, 

When Love's the star that guides. 



THE DIO SMA . 107 

'Tis free where'er the heart is ! 

Nor chains, nor dungeon dim, 
May check the mind's aspirings, — • 

The spirit's pealing hymn! 
The heart gives life its beauty, 

Its glory, and its power ; — 
'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream, — 

Soft dew upon its flower ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



108 THE DIOSIA. 



THE NIGHTS. 

Oh ! the summer night ' 

Has a smile of light, 
And she sits on a sapphire throne ; 

While the sweet winds load her 

With garlands of odor, 
From the bud of the rose o'erblown ! 

But the autumn night 

Has a piercing sight, 
And a step both strong and free ; 

And a voice for wonder, 

Like wrath of the thunder, 
When he shouts to the stormy sea ! 

And the winter night 
Is all cold and white : 



THE DI O SMA, 109 

And she singeth a song of pain ; 

Till the wild bee hummeth 

And warm spring cometh, 
When she dies in a dream of rain ! 

Oh, the night, the night ! 

'Tis a lovely sight, 
Whatever the clime or time ; 

For sorrow then soareth, 

And the lover out-ponreth 
His soul in a star-bright rhyme. 

It bringeth a sleep 

To the forests deep, 
The forest-bird to its nest ; — 

To Care, bright hours 

And dreams of flowers ; 
And that balm to the weary, — rest. 

BARKY CORNWALL. 



110 THE DIO SMA. 



THE MOTHER'S JEWEL. 

Jewel most precious the mother to deck, 
Clinging so fast by the chain on my neck, 
Locking thy little white fingers, to hold 
Closer, and closer, the circlets of gold, — 
Stronger than these are the links that confine 
Near my fond bosom this treasure of mine ! 
Gift from thy Maker, so pure and so dear, 
Almost I hold thee with trembling and fear ! 

Whence is this gladness so holy and new, 
Felt as I clasp thee, or have thee in view? 
What is the noose that slips over my mind, 
Drawing it back, if I leave thee behind? 
Soft is the bondage, but strong is the knot, 
Oh ! when the mother her babe has forgot, 
Ceasing from joy in so sacred a trust, 
Dark should her eye be, and closed for the dust. 



THE DIOSMA. Ill 

Spirit immortal, with light from above, 
Over this new-opened fountain of love, 
Forth from my heart as it gushes so free, 
Sparkling, and playing, and leaping to thee, 
Painting the rainbow of hopes till they seem 
Brighter than reason, — too true for a dream ! 
What shall I call thee? My glory? My sun? 
These cannot name thee, thou Beautiful One ! 

Brilliant ! celestial ! so priceless in worth, 
How shall I keep thee unspotted from earth? 
How shall I save thee from ruin by crime, 
Dimmed not by sorrow, untarnished by time ? 
Where, from the thief and the robber who stray 
Over life's path, shall I hide thee away ? 
Fair is the setting, but richer the gem, 
Oh ! thou'lt be coveted, — sought for by them ! 

I must devote thee to One who is pure, 
Touched by whose brightness, thine own will be sure ; 
Borne in His bosom, no vapor can dim, 
Nothing can win, or can pluck thee from Him ; 



112 THE DIOSMA. 

Seamless and holy the garment he folds 
Over his jewels, that closely he holds. 
Hence, unto Him be my little one given ! 
Yea, " for of such is the kingdom of Heaven ! " 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DI SMA. 113 



THE SILLER PEN 



IMITATION OF THE SCOTTISH. 



I tell you what ! 'twixt frien' an' frien', 
I dinna like the siller pen; 
An' sin' my reason ye wad ken, 

Tho' odd, enough, I'll gie it. 
It is too perfect, — ilka part 
It does, is wi' sic care an' art, 
There's nae a particle o' heart 

Or feelin' gangin wi' it! 

'Tis nae the siller I despise; 
For poortith loud an' daily cries; 
An', if I had but mair supplies, 
I'd then feel a' the better. 
8 



114 THE DI O SMA. 

But, tho' 'twad truly glad my een 
To see its bright an' cheerfu' sheen, 
My purse's hollow sides between, 
Ise shun it in the letter! 

I wad na see the new-born thought 
Laid on the sheet, sae stiff an' straught, 
As if 'twere dead, an' cauld; an' brought 

Before me for interment. 
I like the gracefu', yieldin' nib, 
To gang sae careless an' sae glib, 
An' shoot my fancies, like a squib, 

Just while they're in the ferment! 

An', whiles (ye've, aiblins, felt the pain), 

I wait upon the tardy brain 

For something I can ne'er obtain, 

An' foundered a' thegither; 
I like, if I can do nae mair, 
To hae the quill to scrape an' pare, 
An' find the faut o' dullness there, 

In honest Goosie's feather. 



THE DIOSMA. 115 

For nature's laws maun be obeyed, 
An' this is ane she strictly laid 
On ilka saul she ever made, 

Down frae our earliest mither : 
" Be sel' your first an' greatest care, — 
Frae a' reproach the darlin' spare ; 
An' ony blame, that she should bear, 

Pit off upon anither ! " 

Had nature ta'en a second thought, 
A better precept she had taught ; 
An' guid instead o' evil wrought 
By those the power possessin' ! 
For, sel' had been pit out o' sight, 
The love o' ithers brought to light: 
In short, the wrang had a' been right, 
An' man to man a blessin' ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



116 THE DIOSMA. 



OLD FRIENDS TOGETHER. 

Oh ! time is sweet, when roses meet, 

With Spring's sweet breath around them ; 
And sweet the cost, when hearts are lost, 

If those we love have found them. 
And sweet the mind, tha* still can find 

A star in darkest weather; 
But nought can be so sweet to see 

As old friends met together ! 

Those days of old, when youth was bold, 

And Time stole wings to speed it ; 
And youth ne'er knew how fast Time flew, 

Or knowing, did not heed it ! — 
Though grey each brow that meets us now, 

For age brings wintry weather; 
Yet, nought can be so sweet to see 

As old friends met together! 



THE DI SMA. 117 

The few long known, whom years have shown 

With hearts that friendship blesses ; 
A hand to cheer, perchance, a tear, 

To soothe a friend's distresses; — 
Who helped and tried, still side by side, 

A friend to face hard weather ; — 
Oh, thus may we yet joy to see 

And meet old friends together! 

C. SWAIN. 



118 THE DIOSKA. 



THE HIDDEN NAME. 

She loved, — but her bosom had buried the dart ; 

And there, while she strove to conceal it, 
Its point had engraven his Name on her heart 

Too deep for her lips to reveal it. 
She wept, — but the world knew it not ; for her eye 

Of joy's playful sunlight would borrow 
A few dazzling beams, when another was by, 

To drink up the dew-drops of sorrow. 

She grieved, — and in secret the sigh would release, 

That long in her breast had been stifled : 
She pined, — and in solitude mourned for the peace 

Whereof her young heart had been rifled. 
She languished, — she faded, — she silently fell ! 

And now in the tomb she is lying ; 
"While none that looked on could the malady tell, — 

The flower in its beauty was dying ! 



THE DIO SMA. 119 

But told was the secret on many a leaf, 

When cold lay the hand that conveyed it, 
In lines that were broken and blotted by grief, 

Where Death, a pale spoiler ! betrayed it. 
And yet, not a trace of the Name could be found! 

Where darkness and silence brood over it, 
The sacred engraving is hid in the ground, 

Locked up in the bosom that bore it ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



120 THE DI SMA. 



LOST FRIENDS. 

Voice after voice hath died away, 

i 
Once in my dwelling heard ; 

Sweet household name by name hath changed 

To grief's forbidden word. 

From dreams of night on each I call, — 

Each of the far-removed ; 
And waken to my own wild cry, — 

" Where are ye, my beloved ? " 

Ye left me, and earth's flowers grew filled 

With records of the past; 
And stars poured down another light 

Than o'er my youth was cast. 

The skylark sings not as he sung 

When ye were at my side ; 
And mournful sounds are in the wind, 

Unheard before ye died. peter e:iek. 



THE DIOSMA. 121 



THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through the night, - 

Her breathing soft and low, — 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 
So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers, 

To eke her being out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied; 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 
For when the morn came, dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed ; — she had 

Another morn than ours. t. hood. 



122 THE DIOSMA 



THE ALMOND TREE. 

Behold yon light and blooming sprays 

That grace Spring's early scene ! 
That tree was once, tradition says, 

A fair young Thracian Queen ! 
Daily her lover's bark to view, 

She sought the ocean- side ; 
And, deeming him at length untrue, 

In sad distraction, died. 

He came, — he knelt, with streaming eyes, 

Where, by the gods' decree, 
His loved one was transformed in guise, 

And clasped the leafless tree. 
Amazement ! from the branches shoot 

Rich flowers of vivid bloom, 
Speaking a language sweet, though mute, — 

Forgiveness from the tomb ! 



THE DIOSMA. 123 

I love these old and plaintive tales, 

Yet need no aid from song, 
To show how woman's faith prevails 

O'er woman's sense of wrong ; — 
How she will cling to Hope's frail tie, 

Till Hope's last spark be spent, — 
Willing to suffer, droop, and die, — 

Do all things, — but resent. 

And gloomy yews and cypress trees 

Would roseate blossoms bear, 
If injured ones, by signs like these, 

Could pardon now declare : — 
Earth's sullen and uncultured parts 

With flowers, bright flowers, would wave, 
Telling the love of gentle hearts 

Endures beyond the grave. 

MRS. ABDY. 



124 THE DIO SMA, 



MEETINGS HERE. 

What are meetings, here, but partings ? 

What are extacies, but smartings ? 

Unions what, but separations ? 

What attachments, but vexations? 
Every smile but brings a tear, 
Love its ache, and hope its fear : 
All that's sweet must bitter prove ; 
All we hold most dear, remove ! 

Foes may harm us ; but the dearest, 
Ever, here, are the severest : 
Sorrows wound us ; but we borrow 
From delight the keenest sorrow ! 
'Tis to love our farewells owe 
All their emphasis of woe ; — 
Most it charms that most annoys ; 
Joys are griefs, and griefs are joys! 



THE DIOSMA. 125 

Heavenward rise ! — 'tis Heaven, in kindness, 
Mars our bliss, to heal our blindness ; — 
Hope from vanity to sever ; — 
Offering joys that bloom for ever, 

In that amaranthine clime, 

Fair above the tears of time, 

Where nor fears nor hopes intrude, 

Lost in pure beatitude ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



126 THE DIO SMA 



TO A SICK CHILD. 

Hope breathes at last from out thee, 

My little patient boy; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths off the day's annoy. 
I sit me down, and think 

Of all thy winning ways ; 
And almost wish, with sudden shrink, 

That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness, — 

Thy thanks to all that aid, — 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 

Of fancied faults afraid, — ■ 
Thy little trembling hand, 

That wipes thy quiet tears, — 
These, these are things that may demand 

Sad memories for years ! 



THE DIO SMA . 127 

Sorrows I've had, — severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 
And calmly, 'midst my dear ones, 

Have wasted with dry brow. 
But when thy fingers press 

And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear thy gentleness : 

My tears are in thy bed. 

Ah ! first-born of thy mother, 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 

Thy sister, father, too ; 
My light, where'er I go ; 

My bird, when prison-bound ; 
My hand-in-hand companion, — no ! 

My prayers shall hold thee round ! 

To say, — "He has departed ! — 
His face, — his voice, — is gone ; " 

To feel impatient-hearted; 

Yet feel we must bear on ; — 



128 THE DI O SMA. 

All ! I could not endure 
To whisper of such woe, 

Unless I felt this sleep insure 
That it shall not be so. 

Yet still he's fixed and sleeping ! 

This silence, too, the while, — 
Its very hush and creeping 

Seems whispering us a smile : — 
Something divine and dim 

Seems going by one's ear, 
Like parting wings of cherubim, 

Who say, "We've finished here." 

LEIGH HUNT. 



THEDIOSMA. 129 



MEETINGS AND PARTINGS. 

For ever, like the sea-weed tost 

Upon the restless wave, 
The footprints of our path are lost, 

Until we reach the grave ; — 

For ever on, without repose, 

Weak wanderers through life's press 

Of hasty joys, and hasty woes, 
And lengthened weariness. 

Now here, now there, our steps abide ; 

Then something spurs us on: 
A few short hours bear back the tide, • 

We came, and we are gone ! 

But still, upon our pilgrimage, 

We pause awhile, and lo ! 
In some fresh ties our hopes engage, 

Which make it sad to go : — 



130 THE DIOSHA. 

Leave portions of the heart behind, 

In every resting-place, 
And in the broken fragments find 

But added sorrow's trace : — 

Some new acquaintance changed too soon 
To friends we fear to lose : 

We never can our hearts attune, 
But some rent chord ensues ! 

Ah ! every farewell wafts away 
Some music from our lives ; 

Until, at last, in our decay, 

Scarce one sweet note survives. 

Yet, who would yield such soft regret, 
Indifference cold to prove, — 

Or say, " Alas ! that e'er we met ! " 
Of those we leave and love ? " 

No! — rather bless the transient joy, 
Though sad its parting be ; 

And feel nor time, nor space destroy 
The links of Memory ! f. g. ross. 



THE D10SMA, 131 



A NAME IN THE SAND. 

Alone I walked the ocean strand; 
A pearly shell was in my hand ; 
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand 

My name, — the year, — the day. 
As onward from the spot I passed, 
One lingering look behind I cast ; 
A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be 
With every mark on earth from me ! - 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 

Will sweep across the place, 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of Time, — and been to be no more ; ■ 
Of me, — my day, — the name I bore, 

To leave nor track nor trace. 



132 THE DIOSMA. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
And holds the waters in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands, 

Inscribed against my name, — 
Of all this mortal part has wrought, — 
Of all this thinking soul has thought, 
And from these fleeting moments caught, 

For glory, or for shame ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA. 133 



TIME. 

Time speeds away, — away, — away ! 
Another hour, — another day, — 
Another month, — another year, — 
Drop from us like the leaflets sere : 
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts ; 
The rose-bloom from our cheek departs ; 
The tresses from our temples fall ; 
The eye grows dim, and strange to all. 

Time speeds away, — away, — away ! 
Like torrent in a stormy day, 
He undermines the stately tower, 
Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower; 
And sweeps from our distracted breast 
The friends that loved, the friends that blessed 
And leaves us weeping on the shore 
To which they can return no more. 



134 THE DI OSMA. 

Time speeds away, — away, — away ! 
No eagle through the skies of day ; 
No wind along the hills can flee 
So swiftly, or so smooth, as he : 
Like fiery steed, from stage to stage, 
He bears us on, from youth to age ; 
Then plunges in the shoreless sea 
Of fathomless eternity. 

KNOX. 



THE BIO«MA. 135 



THE SHIP IS READY. 

Fare thee well ! the ship is ready, 
And the breeze is fresh and steady ; 
Hands are fast the anchor weighing, — 
High in air the streamer's playing, — 
Spread the sails, — the wares are swelling 
Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling : 
Fare thee well ! and when at sea 
Think on those that sigh for thee. 

When from home and land receding, 
And from hearts that ache to bleeding, 
Think of those behind, who love thee, 
While the sun is bright above thee ! 
Then, as down to ocean glancing, 
In the waves his rays are dancing, 
Think how long the night will be 
To the eyes that wake for thee ! 



136 THE DIOSMA. 

When thy lonely night-watch keeping, - 
All below thee, still and sleeping, — 
As the needle points the quarter 
O'er the wide and trackless water, 
Let thy vigils ever find thee 
Mindful of the friends behind thee ; 
Let thy bosom's magnet be 
Turned to those who wake for thee ! 

When, with slow and gentle motion, 
Heaves the bosom of the ocean, — 
While in peace thy bark is riding, 
As the silver moon is gliding 
O'er the sky with tranquil splendor, 
Where the starry hosts attend her, — 
Let the brightest visions be 
Country, home, and friends, to thee ! 

When the tempest hovers o'er thee, — 
Danger, wreck, and death before thee, - 
While the sword of fire is gleaming, — 
Wild the winds, — the torrent streaming, 



THE DIOSMA. 137 

Then, a pious suppliant bending, 

Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, 

Reach the mercy-seat, to be 

Met by prayers that rise for thee. 

9 

Soon may He who holds the thunder 
Hush the winds, and chain them under; 
Still the lightnings round thee flashing, 
Quell the waters o'er thee dashing, 
Lift the veil that darkens Heaven, 
Show the bow of promise given, — 
May that Being ever be 
Light, and guide, and shield to thee ! 

When, the land of strangers leaving, 
Homeward-bound, thy ship is cleaving 
Surge and billow heaving round her, 
While the heavens and ocean bound her, — 
May the winds be tempered to thee, 
Death and dread no more pursue thee ! 
May thy friends who wait thee see 
Joy and peace return with thee ! h. f. gould, 



138 THE DTOSMA. 



THE UNFORGOTTEN. 

Forgotten thee ! — oh ! if to dream about thee, 

Until those dreams my very life have been, — 
If what was happiness be grief without thee, 

As, without sunshine, dark the fairest scene, — 
If, other vows and homage still rejected, 

I turned to bless the memory of thine, — 
If sudden wreck of joy so long expected 

Could work no change in this fond heart of mine,' 
If fancy truth, and truth delusion be, 
And hatred love, — I have forgotten thee ! 

If to recall, with fondest recollection, 

Each hour of intercourse refined and pure, — 

If to endow thee with each bright perfection, 
From stranger lips thy praises to secure, — 

If every look and smile in memory hoarded 
Steal on my soul with all its former power, — 



THE DIOSMA. 189 

If every tone within my heart recorded 

Become the music of its after hour, — 
If none on earth can set my spirit free, 
And this be nought, — I have forgotten thee ! 

Forgotten thee ! — methinks thou little knowest 

Of woman's love, — her faith, her constancy: 
Man ! man ! aside the priceless gem thou throwest, 

As 'twere the common freight of life's rough sea. 
Her heart's rich wealth in fear and trembling given, 

Once yielded up, can never be withdrawn: 
The rosy morn of love that lights her heaven, 

Once overshadowed, has no second dawn : 
Her life and love can never parted be, — 
Love is her life, — Have I forgotten thee? 

MISS ROSS. 



140 THE DIOSMA. 



THE SENTENCED. 

They say the blessed Spring is here, 

With all her buds and flowers, — 
With singing birds, and fountains clear, 

Soft winds, and sunny hours. 
They say the earth looks new and bright ; 

That o'er the azure sky, 
The very clouds are fringed with light, 

And gaily floating by. 

They tell me nature's full of life, 

And man, of hope and joy; 
But, ah ! not so my widowed wife, 

— My more than orphan boy ! 
For smiling nature cannot give 

Such innocence as theirs 
To me ; nor can she bid me live, 

In answer to their prayers. 



THE DIO SMA. 141 

Beyond my dismal prison-bars 

The coy night-air steals by ; 
And but a few pale, trembling stars 

Will greet my guilty eye. 
Ere thrice the rising morn shall spread 

Her mantle o'er the wave, 
I shall be numbered with the dead, 

And fill a felon's grave! 

To thee, alas ! my noble son, 

I leave a withered name, — 
A life, for what thy sire hath done, 

Of bitter, blighting shame ! 
And thou, to whom I gave a love 

More pure, and warm, and free, 
Than e'er I placed on aught above, 

What do I leave to thee ? 

A bleeding heart, that cannot make 

Its throbbing pulses cease; 
That ever swells, but will not break, — 

A bosom robbed of peace ! 



142 THE DIOSMA. 

A world all filled with, prison gloom 
By Memory's cruel power: 

Thou'lt smell the dungeon in the bloom 
Of every vernal flower. 

A pall will hang beside the way, 

Where'er thy feet may go, 
Upon the brightest path to lay 

A shade of death, and woe. 
I leave thee as a tender vine 

That felt the tempest rush, 
And fell, with nought whereon to twine, 

For every foot to crush ! 

These cutting thoughts, while yet I live, 

Will ceaseless anguish bring ; 
And, in the last, sad moment, give 

To death a double sting. 
From them, Heaven ! I turn to thee, 

The sinner's Friend to seek: 
If thou hast pard'ning grace for me, 

O God! my pardon speak. 



THE DIOSMA. 143 

Thy Spirit, in the still, small voice, 

Oh, send with peace to mine ; 
And let this trembling soul rejoice 

In being sealed as thine ! 
Then, through the world's dark wilderness 

Be thou my widow's God, — 
The Father of my fatherless, 

When I'm beneath the sod ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



144 THE DIOSMA 



A HAPPY LIFE. 

BY SIR HENRY WOTTON, BORN 1568, DIED 1640. 

How happy is he born and taught, 
That serveth not another's will, — 

Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 

Whose soul is still prepared for death, — 

Untied unto the worldly care 

Of public fame, or private breath ; — 

Who envies none whom chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise : 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : — 



THE DIOSMA. 145 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great ; — 

WTio God doth late and early pray, 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 

With some religious book or friend ! 

This man is freed from servile bands 

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands : 

And having nothing, yet hath all ! 
10 



11G THE DI0S1IA 



THE OTHER DAY. 

It seems, love, but the other day, 

That thou and I were young together ; 
And yet we've trod a toilsome way, 

And wrestled oft with stormy weather. 
I see thee in thy spring of years, 

Ere cheek or curl had known decay ; 
And there's a music in mine ears, 

As sweet as heard the other day. 

Affection, like a rainbow, bends 

Above the past, to glad my gaze ; 
And something still of beauty lends 

To memory's dream of other days. 
Within my heart there seems to beat 

That lighter, happier heart of youth, 
When looks and words were kind and sweet, 

And love's world seemed a world of truth. 



THE DIOSMA. 147 

Within this inner heart of mine 

A thousand golden fancies throng, 
And whispers of a time divine 

Appeal with half-forgotten tongue. 
I know, — I feel, 'tis but a, dream, 

That thou art old and I am grey ; 
And that, however brief it seem, 

We are not as the other day : — 

Not as the other day, when flowers 

Shook fragrance on our j oyous track ; — 
When Love could never count the hours, 

And Hope ne'er dreamed of looking back ; — 
When, if the world had been our own, 

We thought how changed should be its state: 
Then, every cot should be a throne, — 

The poor as happy as the great ! — 

When we'd that scheme which love imparts, 

That chain all interest to bind, — 
The fellowship of human hearts, 

The federation of mankind ! 



148 THE DIOSMA. 

And though with us time travels on, 
Still relics of our youth remain, 

As certain flowers, when spring is gone, 
Will in the autumn bloom again. 

Alas ! 'mid worldly things and men, 

Love's hard to caution or convince ; 
And hopes, which were but fables then, 

Have left us, with their moral, since. 
The twilight of the memory cheers 

The soul with many a star sublime ; 
And still the mists of other years 

Hang dew-drops on the leaves of Time. 

For what was then obscure and far, 

Hath grown more radiant to our eyes ; 
Although the promised hoped-for star 

Of social love hath yet to rise. 
Still foot by foot the world is crossed, — 

Still onward, though it slow appear: 
Who knows how small a balance lost 

Might cast the sun from out its sphere ? 



THE DIOSMA. 149 

All time is lost m littleness ! 

All time, alas ! if rightly shown, 
Is but a shadow, more or less, 

Upon life's lowly dial thrown. 
The greatest pleasures, greatest grief, 

Can never bear the test of years : 
The pleasures vanish, leaf by leaf; 

The sorrow wastes away in tears. 

Then, though it seems a trifling space, 

Since youth, and love, and hope were ours, 
Yet those who love us most may trace 

The hand of age amid our flowers. 
Thus, day by day life's ages grow : 

The sands which hourly fall and climb, 
Make centuries, in their ceaseless flow, 

And cast the destinies of Time. 

c. SWAIN. 



150 THE DIOSMA. 



THE SABBATH. 

Fresh glides the brook, and blows the gale, 

But yonder halts the quiet mill ; 
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, 

How motionless and still ! 
Six days stern Labor shuts the poor 

From Nature's careless banquet-hall ; 
The seventh, an angel opes the door, 

And, smiling, welcomes all ! 

A Father's tender mercy gave 

This holy respite to the breast, 
To breathe the gale, — to watch the wave, 

And know, the wheel may rest! 
Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, 

Thy strength thy master's slave must be ; 
The seventh, thy limbs escape the chain, 

And God hath made thee free. 



THE DI SMA . 151 

The fields, that yester morning knew 

Thy footsteps as their serf, survey ; 
On thee, as them, descends the dew, 

The baptism of the day. 
Fresh glides the brook, and blows the gale, 

But yonder halts the quiet mill ; 
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, 

How motionless and still! 

So rest, oh, weary heart ! — but, lo ! 

The church-spire glistening up to Heaven, 
To warn thee where thy thoughts should go 

The day thy God hath given! 
Lone through the landscape's solemn rest 

The spire its moral points on high ; 
Oh, Soul, at peace within thy breast, 

Rise, mingling with the sky ! 

They tell thee, in their dreaming school, 
Of power from old Dominion hurled ; 

When rich and poor, with juster rule, 
Shall share the altered world. 



152 THE DIOSMA. 

Alas ! since time itself began, 

That fable hath but fooled the hour; 

Each age that ripens power in man, 
But subjects man to power. 

Yet every day in seven, at least, 

One bright republic shall be known ; - 
Man's world awhile hath surely ceased, 

When God proclaims his own ! 
Six days may rank divide the poor, 

Oh, Dives ! from thy banquet-hall ; 
The seventh, the Father opes the door, 

And holds his feast for all ! 

E. L. BULWES. 



TEE DI08M1. 1-53 



THE MINIATURE. 

Dear image of her lovely face, 

Who was my bosom's life and light, 
'Tis agony thy looks to trace, — 

'Tis more, to have thee out of sight ! 
To see thee, and remember where 

The fair original is laid, 
But brings the torture of despair 

From those sad ruins death has made. 

To know how this kind angel eye 

Once beamed on me ; and then to feel 
How dark the shades that on it lie, — 

'Tis to my heart like barbed steel ! 
I have a lock of silken hair, 

That once adorned this cloudless brow : 
Its lustre is not dimmed ; but where, 

Oh ! where' s the forehead's beauty now i 



1,51 THE DlOSMA. 

I have the precious golden band 

That round her lily finger shone : 
The ring is bright ; but how's the hand, — 

The hand for which I gave my own? 
I have her pledge of early love, 

When joy's clear fount was fresh and high : 
Her gift is near, — her soul above ; 

But where's her form? — must earth reply: 

I had a home, — and there I found 

Delights like those of Paradise. 
Its name is now a freezing sound ; — 

When heard it chills my veins to ice ! 
My wounded spirit grows estranged 

To all the scenes of life below. 
The world and I are sadly changed, — 

I long a higher home to know. 

My love must linger near the dead, 
With fondness that can never die ; 

Till that which loves and mourns hath fled. 
And dust and dust together lie. 



THE DIOSMA. 155 

On thee, thou dear, but silent thing, 
I look and doat : oh ! speak to me ! 

Oh, speak ! — my heart at every string 
Is wrung, and bleeding over thee ! 

H. F. GOTJLD. 



156 THE DIOSMA 



THE CONQUEROR. 

A gallant form is passing by, 

The plume bends o'er his lordly brow ; 

A thousand tongues have raised on high 
His song of triumph now. 

Young knees are bending on his way, 

And age makes bare his locks of grey. 

Fair forms have lent their gladdest smile, 
White hands have waved the conqueror on 

And flowers have decked his path the while, 
By gentle fingers strown. 

Soft tones have cheered him, and the brow 

Of beauty beams uncovered now. 

The bard hath waked the song for him, 
And poured his boldest numbers forth ; 



THE DIOSMA. 15' 

The wine-cup, sparkling to the brim, 

Adds frenzy to the mirth ; 
And every tongue, and every eye, 
Does homage to the passer-by. 

His gallant steed treads proudly on. 

His foot falls firmly now, as when, 
In strife, that iron heel went down 

Upon the hearts of men ; 
And, foremost in the ranks of strife, 
Trod out the last dim spark of life. 

Dream they of these, — the glad and gay. 
That bend around the conqueror's path ? 

The horrors of the conflict-day, — 
The gloomy field of death, — 

The ghastly stain, — the cvered head, — 

The raven stooping o'er the dead ! 

Dark thoughts, and fearful ! — yet they bring 
No terror to the triumph-hour, 



158 THE DIOSMA. 

Nor stay the reckless worshipping 

Of blended crime and power. 
The fair in form, the mild of mood, 
Do honor to the man of blood ! 

Men ! Christians ! pause ! — the air ye breathe 
Is poisoned by your idol now; 

And will you turn to him, and wreath 
Your chaplets round his brow? 

Nay, — call his darkest deeds sublime, 

And smile assent to giant crime? 

Forbid it, Heaven ! — a voice hath gone, 
In mildness and in meekness forth, 

Hushing before its silvery tone 
The stormy things of earth ; 

And whispering sweetly through the gloom 

An earnest of the peace to come. 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE DIOSMA. 159 



THE MOURNER. 

Oh ! do not strive by lute and lay 
To charm her settled grief away ; — 
Seek not, when evening shadows fall, 
To lead her to the lighted hall ; 
Think not the scenes of happier years 
Can soothe her woe, or dry her tears, — 
Her joy is past, her hopes are fled, 
Her thoughts are ever with the dead. 

Ask not in soft and whispered strain 
If love may win her ear again ; 
Say not she yet may find on earth 
A cheerful home, a social hearth ! 
The heart that genuine love has nursed 
Can feel no passion save the first; 
Seek not to woo her, — she is wed, 
In soul and spirit, to the dead. 



160 THE DIO SMA, 

But when she sorrows for her love, 
Point to the glorious skies above, 
And bid her hope henceforth to share 
Communion with her loved one there ; 
And she will smile amid her grief, 
And own the power of true belief 
A light upon the path to shed 
Of her whose heart is with the dead. 

MRS. ABDY. 



THE DI SMA. 161 



BEAUTY. 

I saw a dew-drop, cool and clear. 

Dance on a myrtle spray ; 
Fair colors decked the lucid tear, 
Like those that gleam, and disappear. 

When showers and sunbeams play : 
Sol cast athwart a glance severe, 

And scorched the pearl away. 

High, on a slender, polished stem, 

A fragrant lily grew ; 
On its pure petals many a gem 
Glittered, a native diadem 

Of healthy morning dew : 
A blast of lingering winter came, 

And snapt the stem in two ! 
11 



162 THE DIOSMA. 

\ 

Fairer than Morning's early tear, 
Or Lily's snowy bloom, 

Shines Beauty in its vernal year, 

Bright, sparkling, fascinating, clear, 
Gay, thoughtless of its doom : 

Death breathes a sudden poison near, 
And sweeps it to the tomb ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE DIOSMA. 163 



LIGHT. 

Light is the emblem of the star 

Of life, which burns within for aye ; 
Darkness and Death twin-sisters are 

To dumb Oblivion and Decay. 
Thus, when the beauty and the bloom 

Of being are by death effaced, 
To say " Resurgam ! " o'er the tomb 

The hieroglyphic torch is placed. 

Shall, then, that spark, no more renewed, 

Even in its earthly ashes die? 
No ! with eternal warmth imbued, 

It gilds and glows in yonder sky ! 
"Let there be light!" this was the first 

Command which God to matter gave ; 
And, in the moment, radiance burst 

From o'er the chaos-darkened wave. 



164 THE DIOSMA. 

"Let there be light!" — when heathen gloom 

Mantled the world's bewildered mind, 
The Saviour, yielding to the tomb, 

Shed thence a daylight on the blind. 
Oh ! Heavenly Father ! hear the prayer 

Which asks of Thee to guide aright 
Our steps, to where all things are fair, 

And angels walk with Thee in light ! 

D. M. moik. 



THE DIOSMA. 165 



THE UNCONSCIOUS ORPHAN. 

Mother, I have found a tear 

In your eye ! How came it here ? 

More are coming; now they chase 

One another down your face. 

How I feel your bosom heave ! 
i 

What does make you sob and grieve? 
Let me wipe your tears away, 
Or I cannot go to play. 

Why is father sleeping so ? 
Put me down, and let me go ; 
Let me go where I can stand 
Near enough to reach his hand. 
Why ! it feels as stiff and cold, 
As a piece of ice, to hold ! 
Lift me up to kiss his cheek; 
Then, perhaps, he'll wake and speak. 



166 THE DIOSMi. 

Mother, oh ! it isn't he, 
For he will not look at me ! 
Father hadn't cheeks so white ! 
See ! the lips are fastened tight ! 
Father always spoke and smiled, 
Calling me his " darling child ; " 
He would give and ask a kiss, 
When I came ; hut who is this ? 

If 'tis father, has he done 
Speaking to his little one ? 
Will he never, never more 
Know and love me as before ? 
Could he hear what we have said? 
Tell me, — what is being dead? 
Oh! he doesn't breathe a breath! 
Mother^ what's the cause of death? 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE BIOSMA. 167 



'TWAS YESTERDAY. 

" 'Twas yesterday ! " familiar sound, 

Heard oft as idle breath; 
Yet, prophet-like, to all around 

It spoke of woe and death ! 
A mourner by the past it stands, 

In mystic mantle of decay, 
Shrouds in the night of years its hands, 

And grasps all life away ! 

High from the boundless vault of Time 

The stars of empire veer ; 
" 'Twas yesterday " they beamed sublime, 

The mightiest in their sphere ! 
" 'Twas yesterday " revealed to Fate 

The rival crowns of centuries flown ; 
Shewed where a Phantom sat in state 

Upon the Caesars' throne ! 



168 THE DI O SMA. 

Sceptre and robe were cast aside ! 

The ghastly bones stood bare; 
The rust fed on the gaurds of pride, 

The worm held council there ! 
Nor answer would the Phantom give, 

But to our constant prayer replied, — 
" Thus 'twill be said of all that live, 

That 'yesterday' they died!" 

Where are the Grecian conquests now, 

The triumphs of her lute ? 
Dust rests on the Homeric brow, 

Her genius now is mute ! 
Where are the glorious hearts that fought 

For freedom in the " Pass of Gore ? " 
Gone, — where the mightiest names are sought, 

With "yesterday" of yore ! 

We hope, — but what we hope the shroud 
Wraps from our weeping sight; 

We aim at stars, and clasp the cloud, — 
Seek day, and find but night ! 



THE DIOSIA. 169 

Ah ! who with Life's dread woes could cope, 
If 'twere not for that Faith sublime, 

Which sees the Ararat of Hope 
Above the floods of Time? 

What then is "Yesterday?" — a key 

To wisdom most divine ! 
It is the hall of Memory, 

Where Fame's brief trophies shine ! 
The spiritual home of things, 

Where Intellect immortal beams ; 
Which lends to thought its holiest wings, — 

Inspires the noblest themes ! — 

A drop that mirrors forth a world, 

Then mingles with the earth ; 
A star from Time's vast empire hurled, 

Slow falling from its birth ; 
A presence with the sacred past 

To warn our spirits of delay, 
Which saith, " Proud man, to-day thou hast, — 

Use well thy little day ! c. swain. 



170 THE DIOSMA 



FOREST MUSIC. 

There's a sad loneliness about my heart, — 
A deep, deep solitude my spirit feels 
Amid this multitude. The things of art 
Pall on the senses, — from its pageantry 
My weary eye turns off; and my ear shrinks 
From the harsh dissonance that fills the air. 

My soul is growing sick ! I will away, 
And gather balm from a sweet forest walk ! 
There, as the breezes through the branches sweep, 
Is heard aerial minstrelsy, like harps 
Untouched, unseen, that in the spirit's ear 
Pour their soft numbers, till they lull to peace 
The tumult of the bosom. There's a voice 
Of music in the rustling of the leaves ; 
And the green boughs are hung with living lutes, 



THE DIO SMA. 171 

Whose strings will only vibrate to His hand 

Who made them, while they sound His untaught praise ! 

The whole wild wood is one vast instrument 
Of thousand, thousand keys ; and all its notes 
Come in sweet harmony, while Nature plays 
To celebrate the presence of her God ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



172 THE DIOSMA. 



THE SOURCE OF TRUTH. 

Each fabled fount of comfort dry, 

Where can I quench my burning thirst? 

Is not the world one glittering lie ? 
Do not its swelling bubbles burst? 

Systems, men, books, and earthly things, 

Are nothings dressed with painted wings. 

Lord, thou art true ! and, O, the joy 
To turn from other words to thine ; — 

To dig the gold without alloy 

From Truth's unfathomable mine ; — 

To escape the tempest's fitful shocks, 

And anchor 'midst the eternal rocks ! 

CUNNINGHAM. 



THE DIOSMA. 173 



THE LITTLE ONE'S PRAYER. 

My daughter, go and pray : — see, night is come ; 
One golden planet pierces through the gloom; 

Trembles the misty outline of the hill. 
Listen! the distant wheels of darkness glide, — 
All else is hushed ; the tree by the road-side 

Shakes in the wind its dust-strown branches still. 

Day is for evil, weariness, and pain : — 
Let us to prayer ! calm night is come again ; 

The wind, among the ruined towers so bare, 
Sighs mournfully; the herds, the flocks, the stream* 
All suffer, all complain; worn nature seems 

Longing for peace, for slumber, and for prayer. 

It is the hour when babes with angels speak ! 
While we are rushing to our pleasures, weak 

^rd infill. — all young children, with bent knees, 






174 THE DIOSMA. 

Eyes raised to Heaven, and small hands folded fai\ 
Say at the self-same hour the self-same prayer, 
On our behalf, to Him who all things sees. 

And then they sleep ; — oh, peaceful, cradle sleep ! 
Oh, childhood's hallowed prayer ! religion deep 

Of love, — not fear, — in happiness expressed ! 
So the young bird, when done its twilight lay 
Of praise, folds peacefully, at shut of day 

Its head beneath its wing, and sinks to rest. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. 



THE DIOSMA. 175 



THE JASMINE-TREE, 

IN THE COURT OF HARWORTH CASTLE, ENGLAND. 

My slight and slender Jasmine-Tree, 

That bloomest on my border-tower, 
More dearly art thou loved by me 

Than all the wealth of fairy bower ! 
I ask not, while I near thee dwell, 

Arabia's spice, or Syria's rose ; 
Thy light festoons more sweetly smell, 

Thy virgin white more freshly glows. 

My mild and winsome Jasmine-Tree, 
That climbest up the dark grey wall, 

Thy tiny flowerets seem in glee, 

Like silver spring- drops, down to fall, 



176 THE DI SMA. 

Say, did they from their leaves thus peep, 
When mailed moss-troopers rode the hill ; 

When helmed warriors paced the keep, 
And bugles blew for Belted Will?* 

My free and feathery Jasmine-Tree, 

Within the fragrance of thy breath, 
Yon dungeon grated to its key, — 

In chains, the captive pined to death ! 
On border fray, on feudal crime, 

I dream not while I gaze on thee ; 
The chieftains of that stern old line 

Could ne'er have loved a Jasmine-Tree ! 

LORD MORPETH. 
♦Lord William Howard. 



THE DI SMA. 177 



THE CHILD'S WAY TO HEAVEN. 

" Oh ! I am weary of earth," said the child, 

As it gazed, with tearful eye, 
On the snow-white dove it held in its hand, 

" For whatever I love will die." 

So, the child came out of its little bower, 

It came and looked abroad ; 
And it said, " I am going, this very hour, — 

I am going to Heaven and God." 

There was shining light where the sun had set. 

And red, and purple, too; 
And it seemed as if earth and heaven had met 

All round in the distant blue. 

And the child looked out on the far, far west, 

And it saw a golden door, 

Where the evening sun had gone to his rest 

But a little while before. 
12 



178 THE DIOSMA, 

There was one bright streak on a cloud's dark face, 

As if it had just been riven : 
Said the child, " I will go to that very place ; 

For it must be the gate of Heaven ! " 

So, away it went to follow the sun, 
But the heavens, they would not stay ; 

For always the faster it tried to run, 
They seemed to go farther away. 

Then the evening shades fell heavily, 

With night- dews cold and damp ; 
And each little star on the dark blue sky 

Lit up its silvery lamp. 

A light wind wafted the fleecy clouds, 
And it seemed to the child, that they 

Were hurrying on to the west, while the stars 
Were going the other way. 

And the child called out, when it saw them stray, 

By the evening breezes driven, 
"Little stars, you are wandering out of the way! 

That is not the way to Heaven ! " 



THE DIOSMA. 179 

Then on it went, through the rough waste lands, 

Where the tangled briars meet, 
Till the prickles scratched its dimpled hands, 

And wounded its tender feet. 

It could not see before it well, 

And its limbs grew stiff and cold ; 
And at last it cried; for it could not tell 

Its way to the open wold. 

So the child knelt down on the damp green sod, 

While it said its evening prayer ; 
And it fell asleep, as it thought of God, 

"Who was listening to it there. 

A long, long sleep, — for they found it there, 
When the sun went down next day; 

And it looked like an angel, pale and fair, 
But its cheek was cold as clay ! 

The sunbeams glanced on the drops of dew 

That lay on its ringlets bright, 
And sparkled in every brilliant hue 

Like a coronet formed of light. E. b. 



180 THE D10SMA 



WARNING FROM THE GOLD-MINE 

Ye, who rend my bed of earth, 
Mark me ! from my lowly birth, 
Ye to light in me will bring 
What will rise to be your king ! 
I shall rule with tyrant sway, 
Till ye rue my natal day : — ■ 
High and low my power shall own ; 
For I'll make the world my throne ! 

And my worshippers shall be 
Martyrs, dupes, or slaves to me. 
Love and Friendship, on the way 
To their idol, they will slay. 
Conscience, — I ^vill still her cr ; 
Truth for me shall bleed and oie ! 
I will prove a chain, to bind 
Down to earth th' immortal mind ! 



THE DIOSMA.. 181 

Though ye try me by the fire, 
This will only heat my ire ; 
Though my form ye oft may change, 
'Twill but give me wider range ! 
For my sake the poor must feel 
On his face his neighbor's heel : 
Then, I'll turn ; and taking wing, 
Leave with avarice but a sting. 

I will be a spur to crime, — 

Ye shall sell your peace through time, — 

And a long eternity 

Of remorse shall come by me ! 

Now, I'm here, without defence ; 

But, if once I'm taken hence, 

Man shall eat the bitter fruit 

Springing from a golden root! 

H. F. GOULD. 



182 THE DIOSMA. 



THE TOMB OF BLUCHER. 

Ay ! soldier, weep that grave beside, 

Ay ! fix thy heart's intenser gaze : 
There sleeps no son of useless pride, 

There speaks no lie of purchased praise ! 
When Prussia, in her evil hour, 

Was crushed, for errors not her own ; 
When on her rained the iron shower, 

That wrapt the cot, and wrapt the throne 

When all was famine, flame, and gore ; 

When died the noble and the brave ; 
When courage fled, and hope was o'er, 

And man's best refuge was the grave ; — 
Then, he who slumbers at thy feet, 

Snapped, with one sabre blow, the chain, 
And, like the lightning's fiery sheet, 

Unfurled the Prussian's eagle-vane. 



THE DI OSMA. 183 

The Prussian trump was at his lips ; — 

It sounded like the trump of doom ! 
Fled, at its blast, the land's eclipse, — 

Burst, at its blast, the nation's tomb. 
Then, paled Napoleon's guilty star, 

Then, France, thy tiger-heart was tame; 
Then, Europe rose to glorious war, 

And Blucher was man's guiding flame ! 

EEOM THE GERMAN. 



184 THE DIOSMA. 



TIME'S PORTRAIT. 

Time ! — paint me Time ! He hath the snowy hair, 

The wrinkled brow, the hour-glass, and the scythe ; 
Trees bending o'er him, but with branches bare ; 

Wings on his shoulders, — hoary, yet not lithe 
Like those that seraphs wear; broad pinions, strong 

And free ; upbearing, yet not hasty ; face 
To which the mind of worlds seems to belong, 

Yet not akin to gaiety or grace : — 
So paint me Time ! 

And yet, not thus, — not always thus he seems, — 

The stern destroyer; in a milder form 
Ofttimes he comes : — paint him 'midst broken dreams, 

With nothing of the pestilence or storm; 
No weapon in his hand ; the hand itself 

Laid on the lordly hall, the lowly cot, 
The Beauty's roses, and the Miser's pelf; 



THE DI SMA. 185 

And broidered on his robe the word " Forgot ! " 
So paint me Time ! 

Yet hath he other seemings. In his hand 

The sword of Justice, and the poisoned cup 
Remorse and Conscience drug ; a naming brand ; 

A chalice the unrighteous shall drink up ! 
So paint me Time, the Avenger; on his brow 

A crown of stars, with red and angry light, 
Searching like eyes the sinner's conscience now, 

Smiting his spirit with a deadly blight : — 
So paint me Time ! 

Another aspect. With a golden key 

He stands, the Keeper of the mighty Past, 
The treasure-house of deathless Memory ; — 

And ever grow its stores more strange and vast ; — 
Jewels of thought ; dreams half dissolved in air ; 

Love, hope, and transport, — all the joys of Youth, 
And sins of Age, are duly garnered there, 

And registered within the book of Truth : 
So paint me Time ! 



186 THE DIOSMA. 

And yet once more, and in a lovelier form : — 

Call him the Perfecter ! — his hand may close 
The gate whence issues the devouring storm, 

And yet unfold the petals of the rose ; — 
And as the Tutor of the human soul, 

Opening its pathway o'er Life's troubled sea, 
Unto the shelter of its mighty goal, — 

The wide-spread portal of Eternity : — 
Thus paint me Time ! 

MBS. JAMES GRAY. 



THE DIO SMA. 187 



A LOVER'S BALLAD. 

She's on my heart, she's in my thoughts, 
At midnight, morn, and noon ; 

December's snows behold her there, 
And there, the rose of June. 

I never breathe her lovely name, 
"When wine and mirth go round ; 

But, oh ! the gentle moonlight air 
Knows well the silver sound. 

I care not if a thousand hear, 

When other maids I praise ; 
I would not have my brother by, 

When 'tis on her I gaze. 



THE DIO SMA. 

The dew were from the lily gone, 
The gold had lost its shine, 

If any but my love herself 
Could hear me call her mine ! 

MISS TEWSBURY. 



THE DIOSMA. 189 



FROST, THE WINTER-SPRITE. 

ADAPTED TO MUSIC, BY THE AUTHOR. 

The Frost looked forth, on a still, clear night, 

And whispered, " Now, I shall be out of sight ; 

So, through the valley, and over the height, 

I'll silently take my way : 

I will not go on like that blustering train, 

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, 

That make such a bustle and noise in vain; 

But I'll be as busy as they ! " 
t 

He flew up, and powdered the mountain's crest ; 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed 
With diamonds and pearls ; and over the breast 

Of the quivering lake, he spread 
A bright coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The glittering point of many a spear, 



190 THE DI O SMA. 

That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
Where a rock was rearing its head. 

He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over each pane like a fairy crept : 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 

By morning's first light were seen 
Most beautiful things ! — there were flowers and trees, 
With bevies of birds, and swarms of light bees ; 
There were cities, temples, and towers ; and these 

All pictured in silvery sheen ! 

But, one thing he did that was hardly fair; 
He peeped in the cupboard ; and finding there 
That none had remembered for him to prepare, 

" Now, just to set them a- thinking, 
I'll bite their rich basket of fruit," said he, 
"This burly old pitcher, — I'll burst it in three! 
And the glass, with the water they've left for me, 

Shall ' tchick,' to tell them I'm drinking ! " 

H. F. GOULD 



THE DI SiTA. 191 



THE GREEN MOSS. 

A delicate thing is the green, green Moss, 

That clings to the crumbling wall ! 
Its mother's the damp from the steaming earth, 

And the air its sire it may call ; 
For 'tis fed by the breeze with the tiniest dust, 

And its drink is the eve's soft tears, 
Till it daintily spreads forth its emerald crust 

O'er the stone it has clung to for years. 
It grows, and it lives on the rich man's loss ; 
And many a tale tells the green, green Moss ! 

It creeps o'er the tombs of the bold and brave, 

That crumble to dust alone ; 
And spreadeth a shroud o'er the poor man's grave, 

Which not even a friend will own. 
It silently telleth how pride decays, 

And how worthless that pride has been ; 



192 THE DI SMA. 

And the ruinous towers of the ancient days 

It mantles with gorgeous green. 
Thus, glorying in the great man's loss, 
It telleth its story, — the green, green Moss. 

It spreadeth a veil o'er the marshy bed 

Where forests uprooted rest ; 
And mildly it raiseth its delicate head 

On the mouldering princely crest! 
It covers the cracks in the old church-spire ; 

It tells how bright life may be, 
If, when age quenches youth's sparkling fire, 

The conscience from guilt is free. 
It riseth, like Hope, from the broken Cross, 
And a true tale telleth the green, green Moss! 

LEIGH CLIFFE. 



THE DIOSMA. 193 



A CHEAP, BUT PRECIOUS TREASURE. 

There's not a cheaper thing on earth, 

Nor yet one half so dear; — 
'Tis better than distinguished birth* 

Or thousands gained a year. 
It lends the day a new delight; 

'Tis virtue's firmest shield; 
It adds more beauty to the night 

Than all the stars can yield. 

It maketh poverty content, — 

To sorrow, whispers peace ; 
A gift it is, that Heaven hath sent 

For mortals to increase. 
It meets you with a smile at morn; 

It lulls you to repose, — 

A flower for peer and peasant born, — 

An everlasting rose ! — 
13 



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C. SWAIN. 
C. SWAIN. 



196 THE DIOSMA. 



SPRING MEDITATIONS. 

How light is the bosom ! what projects resolving ! 
The clouds are dispersed, and the snows are dissolving, 
While brightly the season of love is revolving; 

And gladly we welcome the sun. 
But where the companions who ever were keeping [ing ! 
The May-morning gambols ? How long they've been sleep- 
Ah ! see, o'er their couches the stars have been weeping, 

And gossamer mantles are spun. 

The season approaches when many will sever, 

And when it is past, will be gone, and for ever ! — 

The many will meet, — but all meet again never, 

Till meeting in silence and gloom. 
But, which is the form that will then be forsaken? 
And where are the eyes that will never awaken? 
Of whom will the final farewell have been taken? 

And who will be left in the tomb? 



THE DIOSMA. 197 

Then, come to my bosom, ye friends it would cheris 1 
Ye may fade, but your semblance there never shall peri 
Ye may die, but your virtues shall memory cherish. 

When long to the world ye've been dead. 
Yes, wreaths of affection, of honor and glory, 
Unfading, are woven in memory's story; 
And laurels of virtue and beauty are rory 

With tears that remembrance hath shed. 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE DIO SMA. 
THE DI OSMA. 



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200 THE DIOSMA; 



THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 

'Tis midnight, — all is peace profound ! 
But lo ! upon the murmuring ground, 
The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound 

Of distant wheels is heard! 
They come, — they pause a moment, — when, 
Their charge resigned, they start, and then 
Are gone, and all is hushed again, 

As not a leaf had stirred. 

Hast thou a parent far away, 

A beauteous child to be thy stay 

In life's decline, — or sisters, they 

Who shared thine infant glee ? — 
A brother on a foreign shore? 
Is he whose breast thy token bore, 
Or are thy treasures wandering o'er 

A wide, tumultuous sea? 



THE DIOSMA. 201 

If aught like these, then thou must feel 
The rattling of that reckless wheel, 
That brings the bright or boding seal, 

On every trembling thread, 
That strings thy heart, till morn appears 
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, 
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, 

As line on line is read. 

Perhaps thy treasure's in the deep, — 
Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, — 
Thy brother where thou canst not weep 

Upon his distant grave ! 
Thy parents hoary head no more 
May shed a silver lustre o'er 
His children grouped, — nor death restore 

Thy son from out the wave ! 

Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled, 
Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled, 
Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled 
Her corner of the tomb. 



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204 THE DIOSMA. 

Slowly o'er the midnight gloom, 

Hark ! the funeral bell is tolling ! 
Sable cloak, and hearse, and plume, 

Toward the village churchyard rolling! 
Such the record of the bells, 

Such the song they'll sing to-morrow; 
Mourning in their music dwells, — 

In their sweetest note is sorrow ! 

C. SWAIN. 



THE DIOSMA. 205 



THE EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 

Was nursed in whirling storms, 

And cradled in the winds, — 

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to fight, — 

Thee, on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory. 

In the low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity ; — in some lone walk 



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208 THE DIOSMA. 

Nor change with to-morrow, 

Should fortune take wing ; 
But deeper the sorrow, 

The closer still cling. 
Oh, be kind to each other! 

The night's coming on, 
When friend and when brother 

Perchance may be gone ! 

c. SWAIN. 



THE DI0SMA. 209 



THE MIDNIGHT RAIN. 

The midnight rain comes pattering down, 

The winds are howling by, 
And clouds of darkest hue and gloom 

Enshroud the spangled sky. 
Yet, careless I pursue my way, 

Not heeding Nature's frown ; 
And all within is bright as day, 

Though rain comes pattering down. 

He who has learned his Maker's ways, 

His mercy and his love, 
Can view them through the endless mist 

That shroudeth all above. 
Ay, though he sees the faded flower, 

At Autumn's sunset brown, 

Or hears, at midnight's lonely hour, 

The rain come pattering down. 
14 



210 THE DI SMA. 

The flower, lie knows, will bloom again, 

And sweet will be the scene, 
When Autumn's russet brown shall change 

To Spring's enchanting green. 
And bright will be the morning's light 

Unclouded by a frown, 
Though now, amid this howling night, 

The rain comes pattering down. 

Thus, let us feel thy presence, Lord, 

In darkness and in light, 
When blessings shed around their bloom, 

Or sorrows cast their blight. 
And let us still Thy ways pursue ; 

So shall we wear a crown, 
When o'er our grave falls midnight dew, 

Or rain comes pattering down. 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE BIOSMA. 211 



THE LAND WHICH NO MORTAL MAY KNOW. 

Though Earth has full many a beautiful spot, 

As the poet or painter might show ; 
Yet more lovely and beautiful, holy and bright, 
To the hopes of the heart, and the spirit's glad sight, 
Is the land which no mortal may know. 

There the cystalline stream, bursting forth from the Throne, 

Flows on, and for ever will now; 
Its waves, as they roll, are with melody rife, 
And its waters are sparkling with beauty and life 

In the land which no mortal may know. 

And there, on its margin, with leaves ever green, 
With fruits, healing sickness and woe, 

The fair Tree of Life, in its glory spread wide, 

Is fed by the deep, inexhaustible tide, 

On the land which no mortal may know! 



212 THE DI SMA. 

There, too, are the lost! — whom we loved on this earth, 

With whose memory our bosoms still glow ! 
Their relics we gave to the place of the dead, 
But their glorified spirits before us have fled 
To the land which no mortal may know. 

There, the pale orb of Night, and the fountain of Day, 

Nor beauty nor splendor bestow ; 
But the presence of Him, the unchanging I AM, 
And the holy, the pure, the immaculate Lamb, 

Light the land which no mortal may know ! 

Oh ! who but must pine, in this dark vale of tears, 

From its clouds and its shadows to go, 
To walk in the light of the glory above, 
And to share in the peace, and the joy, and the love, 
Of the land which mo mortal may know ? 

B. BARTON. 



THE DIO SMA, 213 



BURNS. 

BY AN ANONYMOUS AUTHOR, IN VIEW OF THE BEAUTIFUL MONUMENT 
ERECTED IN SCOTLAND, TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 

Is yonder little snowy dome, 

The sacred shrine, — the silent tomb 

Where thinking strangers love to come, 

Where Genius mourns, — 
The last, the solitary home 

Of thee, poor Burns ? 

Yes — yes, that dome adorns thy bed; 
'Twas given by those who scarcely bread 
When living gave thee — nor a shred 

To hide thy wants, 
But now, would o'er thy mouldering head 

Build monuments ! 



214 THE DIOSMA. 

This little spot is thine ; and who 
Shall turn thee from thy tenure now? 
Thy lease is long, thy landlord true, 

Thy troubles cease : — 
The great possess no more than thou 

From Heaven's lease. 

Swan of the Nith ! thy wing was light, 
Thy plumes were whitest of the white, 
But wild and wayward was thy flight 

From wave to wave : — 
One course was thine, headstrong and bright 

E'en to the grave ! 

Swan of the Nith ! if aught in thee 
Sullied thy brightness, none should see 
The blemish. Men should view, like me, 

Thy life's short dream, 
And let thy faults, like swan's feet, be 

Sunk in the stream ! 



THE DIOSMA. 215 



PASSAGES IN LIFE. 

I have loved, — who has not? and the charm was dispelled, 
While my bosom the sweet little messenger held ; 
As the noontide of manhood beamed warm on my day, 
Like the frost of the morning, it melted away. 

I've rejoiced, — who has not? with the happy and gay; 
But the joys that were sweetest, — departed are they ! 
And the hopes that were brightest, — alas ! have all fled, 
With the friends of my youth, resting now with the dead. 

I have wept, — who has not? but the tear as it fell, 
Carried with it the sorrow that caused it to swell ; 
Even grief was dissolved in the warm tide of tears ; 
And remembrance was lost in the current of years. 

I have erred, — who has not? 'tis the frailty of all; 
And to grieve, when too late, with our " face to the wall ! " 
But the wild song of folly rose high on the wind, 
And the feeling was lost in the riot of mind. 



216 THE DIO SMA. 

I have bowed, — who has not? to the Being above, 
Whose attribute, Mercy, is given in Love. 
Nor manhood, nor folly, nor years, as they roll, 
Can efface the best feeling that clings to my soul ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE DIO SMA. 217 



THE WIDOW AND HER CHILD. 

" Oh ! mother, dear mother, what dreams of delight 
Have brightened and gladdened my slumbers to-night ! 
Methought the kind father we mourn for as dead, 
Returned to our dwelling, and stood by my bed. 

" He questioned me much on the paths I had trod, — 
Of affection to you, and obedience to God. 
My answers he seemed quite rejoiced to obtain, 
Saying, ' Soon, dearest boy, I shall meet thee again.'" 

The mother grew faint, and desponding of heart ; 
She looked on her child, and she felt they must part ; 
For the flush on his cheek, and the light in his eye, 
Foretold that her sweet one was destined to die. 

One murmuring thought on her trial she cast ; 
But she sank on her knees, — the temptation had past. 
She sobbed forth, while clasping the hand of her son, 
" The will of our gracious Creator be done ! " 



218 THE DI SMA. 

Night came, — the fair boy lay reposing in sleep; 
His mother sat by him, to watch and to weep ; 
The Volume of Life her sad vigils beguiled ; 
And she turned o'er its pages, and looked on her child. 

On his red lip a smile now appeared to arise, 
When he suddenly opened his dark, radiant eyes ; 
He stretched forth his arms, as though called to his home, 
And softly he murmured, " Dear father, I come ! " 

Life fled in that moment, — all cares were in vain ; 
Friends came, at the tidings, a sorrowing train; 
They wept for the sweet, playful child they had known, 
But more for the widow, deserted and lone. 

Yet, not without hope her affliction deplore, 
For the God who has taken can also restore, 
And the desolate widow has trust in His love, 
Who can call her to join her dear lost ones above. 

MRS. ABDY. 



THE DIOSMA. 219 



THE ASPEN-TREE. 

Why tremblest thou, Aspen ? no storm threatens nigh ; 
Not a cloud mars the peace of the love-beaming sky ; 
'Tis the Spring of thy being, — no Autumn is near, 
Thy green boughs to wither, thy sweet leaves to sear ! 
The sun, like a crown, o'er thy young head shines free ; 
Then wherefore thus troubled ? what fear'st thou, fair tree ? 

I have watched through the mildest, the stilliest 

hours, 
When Nature slept soft on her pillow of flowers ! 
When, though all things appeared 'neath her influence 

blest, 
Thou alone wert disturbed, . thou alone couldst not 

rest ! 
But still, as lamenting some dreadful decree, 
Didst thou groan, in the calm, like an outcast, lone 

tree ! 



220 THE DIOSMA. 

A voice from its leaves seemed to wail on mine ear, — 
" List, mortal, — attend the dark source of my fear ; 
Ah, learn the dread hour when we sank 'neath rebuke, 
And our boughs, as if grasped by a hurricane, shook ! 
When the morn rose in blood, when the dead wept around, 
And a curse on our seed burst in woe from the ground ! 

" The Cross, amidst lightnings on Calvary stained, 

Was made from our roots ! there His blood hath remained ! 

Creation, accusing, in misery spoke, 

And a shudder eternal then first o'er us broke ! 

For the Serpent we're named, the last doomed to betray : 

Oh ! no rest for the Aspen till earth fades away ! " 

c. SWAIN. 



THE D.I OS MA. 22 1 



SONG OVER A CHILD. 

Dream, Baby, dream ! 

The stars are glowing ; 
Hear'st thou the stream? 

'Tis softly flowing. 
All gently glide the hours ; 
Above, no tempest lowers ; 
Below, are fragrant flowers 

In silence growing. 

Sleep, Baby, sleep, 

Till dawn to-morrow ! 
Why should' st thou weep, 

Who know'st no sorrow? 
Too soon comes pains and tears ; 
Too soon, a cause for fears ; 
So, from thy future years 

No sadness borrow ! 



222 THE DI0SMA. 

Dream, Baby, dream! 

Thine eyelids quiver ; 
Know'st thou the theme 

Of yon soft river? 
It saith, "Be calm, — be sure, 
Unfailing, gentle, pure ; 
So shall thy life endure, 

Like mine, for ever ! " 

BARRY CORNWALL. 



THE DIOSMA. 223 



THE SONG OF TIME. 

O'er the level plain where mountains 

Greet me as I go, 
O'er the desert waste where fountains 

At my bidding flow, 
On the boundless beam of day, 

On the cloud by night, 
I am rushing hence away ! 

Who will chain my flight? 

War his weary watch was keeping ; 

I have crushed his spear : - — 
Grief within her bower was weeping ; 

I have dried her tear : — 
Pleasure caught a minute's hold, — 

Then I hurried by, 
Leaving all her banquet cold, 

And her goblet dry. 



224 THE DIOSMA, 

Power had won a throne of glory,- 

Where is now his fame? 
Genius said, " I live in story," — 

Who hath heard his name? 
Love, beneath a myrtle hough, 

Whispered, "Why so fast?" 
And the roses on his brow 

Withered as I passed. 

I have heard the heifer lowing 

O'er the wild wave's bed, 
I have seen the billows flowing 

Where the cattle fed ! 
"Where began my wanderings ? 

Memory will not say ! 
Where will rest my weary wings? 

Science turns away ! 

MRS. hemans. 



THE DIOSMA. 225 



THE INFANT BAPTIST. 

And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the 
deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel. Luke i., 80. 

Child, amid the honied flowers 
Passing life's bright morning hours, ; 
Playing in the silver rills, 
"Where they bathe Judea's hills ; 
Looking wifli an earnest eye 
At the wild bird flitting by ; 
Infant of the joyous heart, 
Canst thou tell me who thou art? 

Thou, whose little hand in play 

Hurls the clustered grapes away; 

While thou lov'st to watch the bee, 

Or to win a lamb to thee, 
15 



226 THE DIOSMA. 

And to see the fleecy flock 
Resting by the shadowy rock ; 
Know'st thou, tender, beauteous boy, 
What's thine errand, — whence thy joy? 

'Twas thy name that Gabriel spoke, 
By the altar, while the smoke 
From thy father's incense rolled, 
When thy being was foretold! 
Thou art come, the promised one, 
As the dayspring to the sun, 
Soon to usher in new light 
Through the realms of Death and Night ! 

Heavenly innocence is now 
Marked upon thy peaceful brow : 
God's own Spirit filleth thee, 
Sainted babe ; for thou art he, 
Who before the Lamb shall go, 
Crying, that the world may know 
He hath life to give the dead, 
In the blood he comes to shed! 



\ 



THE DIOSMA. 227 

Though, from nature wild and rude 
Come thy raiment, rest, and food, 
Nightly o'er thy desert sleep, 
Angels shall their vigils keep ; 
Through the wilderness by day, 
They will guard and lead the way; 
Till to Israel thou appear, 
Showing Heaven's mild kingdom near. 

High and glorious, then, the part 
For thine eye, and hand, and heart ! 
When thy feet, on Jordan's side, 
Feel the waters, as they glide, 
Thou the Son of God shalt see, 
Come to be baptized of thee, — ■ 
Hear him named, and see the Dove 
Resting on him from above ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



228 THB DIOSMA 



A VOICE FROM THE WINE-PRESS. 

'Twas for this, they reared the vine, — 

Fostered every leaf and shoot, — 
Loved to see its tendrils twine,- — 

Cherished it from branch to root! 
'Twas for this, that from the blast 

It was screened, and taught to run. 
That its fruit might ripen fast, 

O'er the trellis, to the sun I 

And, for this, they rudely tore 

Every cluster from the stem ; — ~ 
Thus to crush us, till we pour 

Out our very blood for them! 
Well, though we are tortured thus? 

Still our essence shall endure ; 
Vengeance, they shall find, with us 

May be slow, but will be sure ! 



THB DIOSHA. 229 

And the longer we are pent 

From the air and cheering light, 
Greater, when they give us vent, 

For our rest will be our might. 
And our spirits, they shall see, 

Can assume a thousand shapes ! 
These are words of verity, 

Uttered by the dying Grapes. 

Many a stately form shall reel, 

When our power is felt within, — 
Many a foolish tongue reveal 

What the recent draught has been, — 
Many a thoughtless, yielding youth, 

With his promise all in bloom, 
Go from paths of peace and truth 

To an early, shameful tomb. 

We will oft the purse unclasp, 
Thence its golden treasures take ; 

And, the husband, in our grasp, 

Leave the wife with heart to break. 



THE DIOSMA 



While his babes are pinched with cold, 

We will bind him to the bowl; 
Till his features we behold 



Glowing like a living coal. 



We will bid the gown-man put 

To his lip the glass or two ; 
Then we'll stab him in the foot, 

Till it oversteps the shoe ! 
And we'll swell the doctor's bill, 

Whilst he parries us in vain : — 
He may cure, but we will kill, 

Till our thousands we have slain ! 

When we've drowned their peace and health, 

Strength and hopes, within the bowl, 
More we'll ask than life or wealth, — 

We'll require the very soul ! 
Ye, who from our blood are free, 

Take the charge we give you now : — 
Taste not, till ye wait and see 

If the grapes forget their vow ! h. f. gould. 



THE DIOSMA. 231 



THE CHRISTIAN MARINER. 

Launch thy bark, Mariner.! 

Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the rudder-bands, — 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily, 

Christian, steer home! 

Look to the weather-bow, 

Breakers are round thee; 
Let fall the plummet now, 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail, there ! 

Hold the helm fast! 
So, — let the vessel wear, — 

There swept the blast. 



232 SHE DIOSMA. 

What of the night, watchman ? 

What of the night ? 
" Cloudy, — all quiet, — 

No land yet, — all's right." 
Be wakeful, be vigilant, — 

Danger may be 
At an hour when all seemeth 

Securest to thee. 

How gains the leak so fast? 

Clean out the hold, — 
Hoist up the merchandise, 

Heave out the gold : — 
There, — let the ingots go, — 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurra! the harbor's near, — 

Lo, the red lights ! 

Slacken no sail yet, 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer, — 

Straight for the highland; — 



IH1 DI«8Mi. 231 

Crowd all thy canvas on, 

Cut through the foam, — 
Christian, cast anchor now, — - 

Heaven is thy home ! 

31ES. SOTJIHEY, 



234 THE D I S M A , 



PROCRASTINATION. 

Alas ! how neglectful, 

Unfeeling, we tread, — 
How careless, — forgetful, 

Of benefits fled ! 
When hopes we have tasted 

Are lost, we deplore, 
And sigh for time wasted, 

We may never see more ! — 
Resolving, — repenting, — 

Still day after day, 
Whilst angels, lamenting, 

Drop tears on our way. 

Could man read Time's pages, - 
Record every scene, — 

He'd find, through life's stages, 
How oft he had been 



THE DIOSMA. 235 

Too full of inventions 

To satisfy thought, — 
Too rife with intentions 

That dwindled to naught! — 
Still taxing to-morrow, 

Still wasting to-day, — 
Whilst angels in sorrow 

Dropped tears on our way. 

c. SWAIN. 



236 THE DIOSMA. 



RELIGION'S NAME PERVERTED. 

Too oft in pure Religion's name 

Hath human blood been spilt; 
And Pride hath claimed a Patriot's fame, 

To crown a deed of guilt ! 
Oh ! look not on the field of blood, — 

Religion is not there ; — 
Her battle-field is solitude, — 

Her only watchword, Prayer ! 

The sable cowl Ambition wears, 

To hide his laurel wreath ; — 
The spotless sword that Virtue bears 

Will slumber in its sheath. 
The truly brave fight not for fame, 

Though fearless they go forth ; 
They war not in Religion's name, — 

They fray for peace on earth. 



THE DIOSMA. 237 

By them that fear is never felt, 

Which weakly clings to life, 
If shrines by which their fathers knelt, 

Are periled in the strife ; 
Not theirs, the heart that, spiritless, 

From threatened wrong withdraws ; 
Not theirs, the vaunted holiness 

That veils an earthly cause. 

T, H. BAILEY. 



238 THE DIOSMA, 



THE LONELY HEART. 

They tell me I am happy ; 

And I try to think it true ; 
They say I have no cause to weep, 

My sorrows are so few : — 
That in the wilderness we tread, 

Mine is a favored lot, 
— My petty griefs all fantasies, 

Would I but heed them not. 

It may be so : the cup of life 

Has many a bitter draught, 
"Which those who drink with silent lips 

Have smiled on as they quaffed. 
It may be so : I cannot tell 

What others have to bear; 
Yet sorry should I be, to give 

Another heart my share. 



THE DIOSMA. 239 

They bid me to the festive board: 
I go, a smiling guest : — 

Their laughter and ftieir revelry- 
Are torture to my breast! 

They call for music ; and there comes 
Some old familiar strain: 

I dash away the starting tear, 
And turn, and smile again. 

But, oh ! my heart is wandering 

Back to my father's home : — 
Back to my sisters at their play, — 

The meadows in their bloom, — 
The blackbird on the scented thorn, — 

The murmuring of the stream, — 
The sounds upon the evening breeze, 

Like voices in a dream ; — 

The watchful eyes that never more 

Shall gaze upon my brow, — 
The smiles, — oh! stop that melody, — 

I cannot bear it now! — 



240 1HB DIOSMA. 

And heed not when the stranger sighs, 
Nor mark the tears that start, — 

There can be no companionship 
For loneliness of heart ! 

SARAH STICKNEY, (MES. ELLIS.) 



THE DIOSJIA. 241 



DEATH. 

Come not in terrors clad, to claim 

An unresisting prey ; 
Come, like an evening shadow, Death ! 

So stealthily, — so silently ! 
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath 

Then willingly, — oh! willingly 

With thee I'll go away. 

What need to clutch, with iron grasp, 
"What gentlest touch might take ? 
What need, with aspect dark, to scare, 

So awfully, — so terribly? 
The wearied soul would hardly care, - 
Called quietly, — called tenderly, — 
From thy dread power to break ! 
16 



242 THE DIOSMA. 

'Tis not as when thou markest out 
The young, the gay, the blest, 

The loved, the loving, — they who dream 
So happily, — so hopefully ! 

Then, harsh thy kindest call may seem ; 
And shrinkingly, — reluctantly, 
The summoned may obey. 

But I have drank enough of life, — 

(The cup assigned to me, — 
Dashed with a little sweet at best, 

So scantily! so scantily!) 
— To know full well that all the rest, 

More bitterly, — more bitterly ! 

Drugged to the last will be. 

And I may live some heart to pain, 
That kindly cares for me, — 

To pain, but not to bless. O Death ! 
Come quietly, — come lovingly, 



THB DIOSMA. ,243 

And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; 
Then willingly, — oh ! willingly 
I'll go away with thee ! 

CAROLINE BOWLES. 



244 THE DIOSMA 



SPEAKING ROSES. 

I breathe on the roses I offer to thee ; 

Every leaf that uncloses says something from me ! 

They come from our garden, that summer world, where 

The soft blossoms harden to cherry and pear : — 

Where fruit and where flowers together unfold, 

And morning's bright hours call the bee to his gold ! 

On the wreath that I bind thee, our summer has shone : 
Ah J where will it find thee ? — afar and alone ! 
The walls that have bound thee, are dusky and high, 
And dark roofs are round thee, that shut out the sky. 
But the roses I gather will bring thee again 
Our valley's soft weather, its sunshine and rain. 

"When art thou returning? how long wilt thou roam? 
The wealth thou art earning is not worth thy home ! 



THE DIOSMA. 245 

The lark's lightest singing awakes me from sleep 
That thine image was bringing, — I waken and weep ! 
By the prayers that attend thee, the fond hearts that yearn, 
Let the roses I send, say — "Return, love, return!" 

To thy heart let them enter! — 'mid care, and 'mid toil, 
Hath its innermost centre one spot without soil, 
Where the cold world is measured by truth not its own, 
And my image is treasured — loved — loving — and loae? 
Though life hath encrusted its rust on the shrine, 
That heart may be trusted ! — I know it by mine ! 

MISS LAHDOST* 



246 THE DIOSMA. 



BURNING THE LETTERS. 

Fike, my hand is on the key, 

And the cabinet must ope ! 
I shall now consign to thee 

Things of grief, — of joy, — of hope. 
Treasured secrets of the heart 

To thy care I hence entrust: 
Not a word must thou impart, 

But reduce them all to dust ! 

This, by life's bright morning beams, 

This was gaily filled and sent. 
Childhood vanished like its dreams : 

Here, devouring element. 
This was friendship's cherished pledge : 

Friendship took a colder form : 
Creeping on its gilded edge, 

May the blaze be true and warm ! 



THE BIOS MA.. 247 

These, — the letter and the token, — 

Never more shall meet my view ! 
When the faith has once been broken. 

Let the memory perish too ! 
This, — 'Twas penned while purest joy 

Warmed the heart or lit the eye. 
Soon did fate that peace destroy, 

And its transcript now must die. 

This must go ! for, on the seal, 

When I broke the solemn Yew, 
Keener whs the pang than steel, — 

'Twas a hearts tring breaking too ! 
Here comes up the blotted leaf, 

Blistered o'er by many a tear. 
Hence ! thou waking shade of grief, 

Go, — for ever disappear ! 

This is his, who seemed to be 

High as Heaven, and fair as light: 

But the visor rose, and he — 

Spare, O Memory ! spare the sight 



248 THE DIOSMA. 

Of the face that frowned beneath, 
While I take it, hand and name, 

And entwine it with a wreath 
Of the purifying flame ! 

These, — the hand is in the grave, 

And the soul is in the skies, 
Whence they came ! 'Tis pain to save 

Cold remains of sundered ties ! 
Go together, all, and burn, 

Once the treasures of my heart ! 
Still my breast shall be an urn 

To preserve your better part ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA. 249 



THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. 

The full-orbed moon has reached no higher 
Than yon old Church's mossy spire ; 
And seems, as gliding up the air, 
She saw the fane ; and, pausing there, 
Would worship, in the tranquil night, 
The Prince of peace, — the Source of light, 
Where man for God prepared the place, 
And God to man unveils his face. 

Her tribute all around is seen; 
She bends, and worships like a queen ! 
Her robe of light and beaming crown, 
In silence, she is casting down; 
And, as a creature of the earth, 
She feels her lowliness of birth, — 
Her weakness and inconstancy 
Before unchanging purity ! 



250 THE DIOSMA. 

Pale traveller, on thy lonely way, 
'Tis well thine homage thus to pay ; 
To reverence that ancient pile, 
And spread thy silver o'er the aisle 
Which many a pious foot has trod, 
That now is dust beneath the sod ; 
Where many a sacred tear was wept 
From eyes that long in death have slept ! 

The temple's builders, — where are they? 

The worshippers ? — all passed away, 

Who came the first, to offer there 

The song of praise, the heart of prayer ! 

Man's generation passes soon ; 

It wanes and changes like the moon : 

He rears the perishable wall ; 

But, ere it crumbles, he must fall ! 

And does he sink to rise no more ? 
Has he no part to triumph o'er 
The pallid king? — no spark, to save 
From darkness, ashes, and the grave? 



THE DIOSMA. 251 

Thou holy place, the answer wrought 
In thy firm structure, bars the thought ! 
The spirit that established thee, 
Nor death nor darkness e'er shall see! 

H. F, GOULD. 



252 THE DIOSMA. 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

Good-night : 
Peace to all who taste of sorrow ! 
Day now hastens to its close ; 
Busy, toiling hands, repose 
Till awakes the bright-eyed morrow, — 
Good-night. 

Go to rest : 
Shut your eyelids ; — darkness falleth ! 
Hushed are all the streets around, 
Save the watchman's stilly sound; 
Night to all the weary calleth, 
" Go to rest ! " 

Slumber sweet; 
Of your Paradise be dreaming ! 



THE DIOSMA. 253 

Who for love no peace can find, 
Let him see a vision kind, — 
Loved by his beloved one seeming : 
Slumber sweet ! 

Good-night : 
Sleep ye till the morning breaketh ; — ■ 
Sleep ye till another day 
Calls to other cares away; 
Fear ye not, — your Father waketh : 
Good-night. 

FKOM THE GERMAN OF KOKXEK. 



254 THE DIOSMA 



THE LITTLE FOOT. 

My boy, as gently on my breast, 

From infant sport thou sink'st to rest ; 

And on my hand I feel thee put, 

In playful dream, thy little foot, 

The thrilling touch sets every string 

Of this full heart to quivering ; 

For, ah! I think, what chart can show 

The ways through which this foot may go ? 

Its print will be, in childhood's hours, 
Traced in the garden, round the flowers ; 
But youth will bid it leap the rills, — 
Bathe in the dew on distant hills, — 
Roam o'er the vales, and venture out 
Where riper years would pause and doubt; 
Nor brave the pass, nor try the brink, 
Where youth's unguarded foot may sink. 



THE DIOSMA. 255 

But what, when manhood tints thy cheek, 
Shall be the ways this foot will seek? 
Is it to lightly pace the deck, 
Helpless, to slip from off the wreck? 
— To wander o'er a foreign shore, 
Returning to thy home no more, 
Until the bosom now thy pillow, 
Is cold and low beneath the willow ? — 

Or, is it for the battle-plain, — 
-Beside the slayer and the slain? 
Will there its final step be taken ; — 
There sleep thine eye, no more to waken? 
Is it to glory, or to shame, — 
To sully, or to gild thy name? 
Is it to happiness, or woe, 
This little foot is made to go ? 

But whersoe'er its lines may fall, 
Whether in cottage or in hall, 
Oh ! may it ever shun the ground 
Whereon His foot was never found, 



256 THE DIOSMA. 

Who on his path of life hath shed 
A living light, that all may tread 
Upon his earthly steps, and none 
E'er dash the foot against a stone ! 

Yet, if thy way is marked by fate, 
As guilty, dark, and desolate ! — ■ 
If thou must float, by vice and crime, 
A wreck, upon the stream of Time ; 
Oh ! rather than behold that day, 
I'd know this foot, in lightsome play, 
Would bound, with guiltless infant glee. 
Upon the sods that shelter me ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA. 257 



LOVE STRONG IN DEATH. 

This poem is founded on a fact witnessed by a friend of the author. 
A little boy, at the point of death, requested his mother to give him 
something to keep for her sake. 



The brother of two sisters 

Drew painfully his breath ; 
And a strange fear came o'er him. 

For love was strong in death. 
The fire of fatal fever 

Burned darkly on his cheek ; 
And often to his mother 

He spake, or tried to speak. 

He said, " The quiet moonlight 
Beneath the shadowed hill, 

Seemed dreaming of good angels, 
While all the woods were still : 
17 



*. 



25*8 THE DIOSMA. 

I felt as if from slumber 

I never could awake: 
Oh, mother, give me something 

To cherish for your sake ! 

" A cold, dead weight is on me, — 

A heavy weight, like lead; 
My hands and feet seem sinking 

Quite through my little bed ! 
I am so tired and weary, — 

With weariness I ache : 
Oh, mother, give me something 

To cherish for your sake ! 

" Some little token give me, 

That I may kiss in sleep, 
To make me feel I'm near you, 

And bless you, though I weep. 
My sisters say I'm better, — 

But, then, their heads they shake 
Oh, mother, give me something 

To cherish for your sake! 



THE DIOSMA. 259 

" Why can't I see the poplars ? 

Why can't I see the hill, 
Where, dreaming of good angels, 

The moonbeams lay so still ? 
Why can't I see you, mother ? 

I surely am awake : 
Oh, haste, and give me something 

To cherish for your sake ! " 

The little bosom heaves not ; 

The fire hath left his cheek: 
The one chord, — is it broken ? 

The strong chord, — could it break? 
Ah, yes ! the loving spirit 

Hath winged its flight away! 
The mother and two sisters 

Look down on lifeless clay. 

\ 

EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 



260 THE DIOSIA, 



THE TRUNK FROM SEA. 

Strength of my strength ! around me, lest I sink, 

Place thine Almighty arm, and bear me up,— 
Lest I should faint; and thus refuse to drink, 

When Thou, my Father, dost present the cup. 
This double trial, of the heart and flesh, 

How shall I stand, till Thou the power supply? 
This fearful opening of the wound afresh 

How can I bear, with no Physician by ? 

I knew my son, — I knew too well, that he 

His dying pillow found upon the wave; 
I knew the solemn wailing of the sea 

Was still the dirge o'er his unfathomed grave ! 
Yet, strange delusion ! — worse than vain deceit ! — 

How oft to this weak fancy did it seem 
That still my child and I on earth should meet, — 

That I'd been struggling through a fearful dream ! 



THE DIOSIi. 261 

For when he last was folded to my heart, 

The tide of life in his young breast was high : 
I from his cheek have seen no rose depart, — 

Have marked no lustre fading from his eye. 
But now, this awful speaker ! — as the lid 

Slowly is raised, its bosom to unveil, 
Truth, like a bolt that in the cloud was hid, 

Bursts on my sight, and strikes my spirit pale. 

Here is the vesture! — here's the little friend, 

Wrapped in deep silence in its case of gold, 
Whose steady hands were by him to the end, 

Nor rested till its master's heart was cold. 
Here is the seal that all his letters bear, — 

The chain, — the gift that near his heart was worn : 
This, — sad memorial! — 'tis a lock of hair, 

That from his head some kindly hand hath shorn! 

And here's the Lamp that shone upon his way ; 

God's everlasting Word, his trust and guide : 
It is the food that fed him day by day, — 

The fountain that his draught of life supplied. 



262 THE DIOSMA. 

It is the sacred casket whence he took 

The priceless pearl that in his crown is set; 

The radiant centre, where he loved to look 
On Justice, Peace, and Truth, and Mercy met. 

To its pure Author, every glowing line 

That forms this hallowed book, he fondly traced. 
Thus, o'er my soul, pour in, O light divine ! 

And I will open where his mark is placed. 
'Tis at the Saviour's tomb ! — but here, instead 

Of cold, pale clay, are angels shining now ! 
The grave is broken ! for, behold ! the dead 

Is risen, and sweetly asks, " Why weepest thou ? 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA. 263 



WINTER LIGHTNING. 

The flash at midnight ! — 'twas a light 
That gave the blind a moment's sight, 

Then sunk in tenfold gloom: 
Loud, deep, and long the thunder broke, 
The deaf ear instantly awoke, 

Then closed as in the tomb : 
An angel might have passed my bed. 
Sounded the trump of God, and fled. 

So life appears; — a sudden birth, 

A glance revealing Heaven and earth, — 

It is and it is not ! 
So fame the poet's hope deceives, 
Who sings for after-times, and leaves 

A name to be forgot: 



264 THE PIOSMA. 

Life is a lightning flash of breath, 
Fame but a thunder- clap at death. 

MONTGOMERY. 



THE DIOSMA. 2§5 



THE DYING STORM. 

I am feeble, pale, and weary; 

And my wings are nearly furled : 
I have caused a scene so dreary, 

Now I'm glad to quit the world! 
While with bitterness I'm thinking 

On the evil I have done, 
To my caverns dark I'm sinking 

From the coming of the sun. 

But the heart of man will sicken 

In that pure and holy light, 
When he learns the hopes I've stricken 

With an everlasting blight ! 
For so wildly, in my madness, 

Have I poured abroad my wrath, 
I've been changing joy to sadness, 

And with ruins strewed my path. 



266 THE DIOSMA. 

Earth has shuddered at my motion ; 

She my power in silence owns ; 
But the troubled, roaring ocean 

O'er my deeds of horror moans. 
I have sunk the dearest treasure ; 

I've destroyed the fairest form; 
Sadly have I filled my measure ; 

And I'm now a Dying Storm ! 

Yet, to man among the living, 

With my final gasp and sigh, 
I, this kind monition giving, 

Fain would serve him while I die 
Not like me, shall he, descending 

Swift to death, from being cease ! 
He's a spirit, fleetly tending 

To eternal pain or peace ! 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA, 267 



THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. 

Where is the tree the Prophet threw 

Into the bitter wave ? 
Left it no scion where it grew, 

The thirsting soul to save? 

Hath nature lost the hidden power 

Its precious foliage shed ? 
Is there no distant Eastern bower 

With such sweet leaves o'erspread ? 

Nay, wherefore ask? — since gifts are ours, 

Which yet may well imbue 
Earth's many-troubled founts with showers 

Of Heaven's own balmy dew. 



268 THE DIO 3MA. 

Oh ! mingled with the cup of grief 
Let faith's deep spirit be! 

And every prayer shall win a leaf 
From that blest healing tree ! 

MRS, HEMANS, 



THE DIOSMA. 269 



FAME. 

Oh ! who shall lightly say that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
Whilst in that sound there is a charm, 
The nerves to brace, — the heart to warm ; 
As, thinking of the mighty dead, 

The young from slothful couch will start, 
And vow, with lifted hands outspread, 

Like them, to act a noble part? 

Oh ! who shall lightly say that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
When, but for those, our mighty dead, 

All ages past a blank would be ! — 
Sunk in Oblivion's murky bed, — ■ 

A desert bare, — a shipless sea ? 
They are the distant objects seen, 

The lofty marks of what hath been. 



270 THE DIOSMA. 

Oh ! who shall lightly say that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
When memory of the mighty dead 

To earth-worn pilgrims' wistful eye 
Can brightest rays of cheering shed 

That point to immortality? 

JOANNA BAILLIE, 



THE DI SMA. 271 



WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 

Little child, upon thy bier 
There is a solitary tear; 

But that tear is not thy mother's ! 
And by thine open grave is seen 
Another little cell of green ; 

A lowly grave, — but not thy brother's! 

Little child, thy days are past; 
And none was painless but the last; 

Unwatched but by a stranger's eye: 
Yet, through thy little days of pain, 
Thou hast not lived and died in vain, 

Though seeming only born to die. 

Little child, when thou shalt stand 
Upon thy Saviour's blest right hand; 



272 THE DIOSMA. 

And all is mute but Charity; 
Oh, then, an angel band among, 
That tear shall find a trumpet tongue, 

And plead for one that loved thee ! 

THE EIVER'S BANK. 



THB DIOSMA. 273 



THE WANDERING WIND. 

The Wind, the wandering "Wind 

Of the golden summer eves — 

Whence is the thrilling magic 

i 
Of its tones among the leaves ? 

Oh ! is it from the waters, 
Or from the tall green grass ? 

Or is it from the hollow rocks 

Through which its breathings pass ? 

Or is it from the voices 

Of them all in one combined, 

That it wins the tone of mastery? — 
The Wind, the wandering Wind! 

No, no ! the strange sweet accents 
That with it come and go, 

They are not from the osiers, 

Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 
18 



274 THE LIOSMA. 

They are not of the waters, 

Nor of the caverned hill : 
Tis the human love within us 

That gives them power to thrill ! 
They touch the links of memory 

Around our spirits twined, 
And we start, and weep, and tremble, 

To the wind, the wandering Wind ! 

MRS. HEMANS. 



THE DIOSMA. 275 



IS THERE AN UNBELIEVER. 

Is there an unbeliever,^* 

One man who walks the earth, 
And madly doubts that Providence 

Watched o'er him at his birth? 
He robs mankind for ever 

Of hope beyond the tomb ! 
What gives he as a recompense ? — > 

The brute's unhallowed doom ! 

In manhood's loftiest hour, 

In health, and strength, and pride, 
Oh ! lead his steps through valleys green, 

Where rills 'mid cowslips glide ; 
Climb Nature's granite tower, 

Where man hath rarely trod; 
And will he then, in scenes like these, 

Deny there is a God? 



276 THE DIO SMA. 

Yes, the proud heart will ever 

Prompt the false tongue's reply ! ■ 
An omnipresent Providence 

Still madly he'll deny. 
But see the unbeliever 

Sink down in death's decay ; 
And hear the cry of penitence ! — 

He never learned to pray ! 

T. H. BAYLY. 



THE DIOSITA. 277 



A DREAM OF MUSIC. 

I dreamed a bright angel so near me was singing, 

My spirit seemed resting, at last, at the goal ; 
The deep-thrilling strains through my bosom were bringing 

The pure oil of joy to pour over my soul. 
So sweet — so entrancing — the spell that had bound me, 

The rudeness of earth melted off by its power; 
The air of an Eden seemed wafting around me 

The scent of its fruit, and the spice of its flower ! 

The voice, to my breast new emotions revealing, 

Had lulled every dissonant heart-string to peace : 
Its wounds were all touched with the unction of healing ; 

And darkness seemed fading, in glory to cease. 
So holy the rapture, — so blissful the dreaming, 

I felt that my eye never after could weep; 
Yet fain had I wept, when the morn, with her beaming 

Too soon round my pillow, had banished my sleep! 



278 THE DIOSIA. 

My angel departed ! with slumber in flying 

The music was lost, — it will bless me no more ! 
For earth seemed defied, by its last note in dying, 

To breathe it again, or its power to restore. 
My spirit must listen, and sigh for it ever, 

As through this dark desert a pilgrim I roam ; 
For, once heard below, to invite me, it never 

Repeats the sweet call, — 'twas a song of my Home! 

H. F. GOULD. 



THE DIOSMA. 279 



EVENING. 

When eve is purpling cliff and cave, 

Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow ! 

Not' softer on the western wave 
The golden lines of sunset glow. 

Then all, by chance or fate removed, 
Like spirits crowd upon the eye ; 

The few we liked, — the "one we loved ! 
And the whole heart is memory. 

And life is like a fading flower, 

Its beauty dying as we gaze ; 
Yet, as the shadows round us lower, 

Heaven pours above a brighter blaze. 



280 THE DIOSMA. 

When morning sheds its gorgeous dye, 
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given; 

But dark and lonely is the eye 

That turns not, at its eve, to Heaven ! 

REV. G. CROLY. 



THE DIOSMA. 281 



THE SLEEPING SLAVE. 

At, sleep ! — alas ! the day's at hand ; 
On tree and flower the morn-dews stand; 
One hour, — and on heaven's arched blue 
The risen sun will spring to view, — 
And thou must meet him from the wave, 
'Midst flowers, and dews, and light — a Slave 

Yet sleep! — that hour is all thine own; 
And dreams may on its wings be strown, 
Bright, as if wafted from afar 
By genii guests of moon or star, 
Brighter than on his eyes may rest, — 
The slumbering lord of east or west. 

Dream, wretched one, — but not of time, 
Nor e'en thine own remembered clime ! 



282 THE DIOSMA, 

Dream not of mother, wife, or boy, 
— Of childhood's games, or freedom's joy; 
Forget thy native valley's stream, — 
Forget thy father's house, — yet dream ! 

Dream of a world beyond the grave ; 
"lis broad, but in its walks no slave ! 
Of Heaven, where many mansions be, 
Of Him, who orders one for thee, 
Of Him, who notes thy tears and sighs, 
Dream thus and conquer, — Slave, arise ! 

MISS JEWSBURY. 



THE DIOSMA. 283 



DIRGE. 

Where shall we make her grave? 
— Oh ! where the wild-flowers wave 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard, — 

There, — lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her, — 
Now may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill. 
Low on sweet Nature's breast 
Let the meek heart find rest, 

Deep, deep and still ! 

Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 



284 THE DIOSMA. , 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed, 
Where, on a gentle head, 

Storms beat no more ! 

What, though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring-rain, — 

Plays the soft wind? 
Yet still, from where she lies, 
Should blessed breathings rise, 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore let song and dew 
Thence, in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go ! 

Oh ! then, where wild-flowers wave 
Make ye her mossy grave, 



THE DIOSMA. 285 

In the free air! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard, — 

There, — lay her there ! 

MRS. HEMANS. 



286 THE DIOSMA 



THE STORM IN THE FOREST. 

The storm in the forest is rending and sweeping, 

While tree after tree bows its stately green head ! 
The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping, 

And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are shed. 
The bird, that has roamed, as she thinks her benighted, 

Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood ; 
And flags not a wing, till her bosom affrighted 

Has laid its warm down on her own little brood. 

And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them, 

To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast, 
Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them, 

And lie, safe and calm, till the storm-clouds are past. 
Hast thou, too, not felt, when life's tempest was drearest, 

And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest, 
Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest, — ■ 

Thy screen in his pinion, — thy shiel c in his breast? 



THE DI OSMA. 287 

When clouds frowned most darkly, and perils beset thee, 

Till each prop of earth seemed to bend or to break, 
Did e'er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee ? 

The mother her little ones, then, may forsake ! 
Oh, no ! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer, — 

The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm ; 
And all things around thee seem fresher and purer, 

And touched with new glory, because of the storm ! 



THE END. 



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Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 



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